


If We Are Only Strong Enough To Carry It

by ravnoschick



Series: The One Thing I Always Wanted [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Crush, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Ferelden (Dragon Age), Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mabari, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Past Abuse, Polyamory, Romance, Second Chances, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27942431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravnoschick/pseuds/ravnoschick
Summary: “Varric? Who’s your friend?”Varric looked to the woman who nodded her permission, and he grinned. “Herald of Andraste, meet Lady Brenna Amell, the Hero of Ferelden.”She smiled. “Well met. You must be my cousin Ivan.”“Vanya,” he replied automatically. “No one calls me Ivan unless I’m in trouble.” Which, unfortunately, had been near constant since the Conclave. “We’re cousins?”“All the noble families in the Marches have married at least once, but yes, Bethany found a few connections between the Amells and the Trevelyans.” She turned to Varric. “You should have heard the sound she made when she discovered the connection. It was like someone squeezed a nug.”“Bethany?” Vanya asked.“Bethany Hawke,” Varric said. “She’s the Champion’s sister. Which would also make her your cousin.”“Welcome to the family.”
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford/Zevran Arainai/Leliana, Female Amell/Leliana (Dragon Age), Female Amell/Zevran Arainai, Female Amell/Zevran Ararnai/Leliana, Zevran Arainai/Cullen Rutherford
Series: The One Thing I Always Wanted [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046185
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. Unmasked

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 will make much more sense if you read Part 1 first. ;)

_“The Chasind have tales of we witches, saying that we assume the forms of creatures to watch them from hiding.” Morrigan grinned a predator’s smile—bared teeth and dominance—and the flickering light of her campfire added menace to the expression. “You look upon the world around you and think you know it well. I have smelled it as a wolf, listened as a cat, prowled shadows that you never dreamed existed.”_

_“I’ve never heard of magic like that.” Brenna would have thought the tales superstition if she hadn’t witnessed Morrigan transform into a monstrous spider in the middle of battle. Alistair had shrieked so loud that her ears were still ringing, and she echoed the sentiment. She would rather battle a dozen ogres than deal with giant spiders._

_“Some of these traditions are old, indeed, passed down as carefully-guarded lore from one generation to the next. The zealots of the Chantry would uproot all such practitioners if they could, but as luck has it some still exist. My mother is such a one.”_

_Flemeth. Brenna kept her expression carefully neutral, but she mentally salivated at the idea of learning magics forbidden by the Chantry. Morrigan didn’t know how fortunate she was to have such a teacher._

_“Can you change into other human forms as well?” Brenna asked._

_“The form of an animal is different from my own. One may study the creature, learn to move as it does, think as it does. In time, this allows one to become as it is. I gain nothing by studying another human. I already am the same as they are, I learn nothing. So the answer is no, my human form is the only one I possess.”_

_If true, it was a shockingly shortsighted attitude for an apostate who needed to hide from templar hunters. Brenna could think of countless ways where the ability to change one’s features would be invaluable._

_“Can you teach me, please?”_

_Morrigan eyed her speculatively and then nodded. “Very well.”_

***

Brenna Amell hated heights and despised flying, but gaining a bird's eye view of Therinfal Redoubt provided valuable information for her mission. She circled high above the fortress, careful to stay out of range of bored templar archers looking for target practice. Not that many knights would be looking skyward due to the inclement weather. Ponderous gray clouds spat cold rain, rumbling thunder and the occasional crack of lightning. It was if the Maker Himself had designed the day to grate on Brenna’s already frayed nerves.

She was going to kill Alistair for this. And Anora. And then she would raise them as undead for the pleasure of killing them twice.

The crow swooped away from the fortress and took shelter in the branches of an evergreen. She shook water from her feathers and squawked in irritation. The numbers were off. Her agents had been quite clear in the count of the templars who had marched from Val Royeaux, and this looked to be a quarter of that size. Unless the knights were packed elbow to elbow inside of the keep to avoid the rain, the bulk of the Order had broken off somewhere between here and Orlais.

Well, one crisis at a time. She had a mission for the throne to complete.

The crow fluttered to the forest floor and a stinging rush of magic pricked her limbs as she transformed into Lady Grace Weatherford, arcane advisor to her majesty Queen Anora. She adjusted her posture and adopted the air of an aging Fereldan courtier—stubborn but sensible, and possessed of little patience for nonsense. Brenna developed this persona over the past five years and was comfortable playing the part of a wise enchanter who had chosen to leave the Circle to serve the throne. She had Wynne to thank for that, Maker rest her soul.

Lady Grace emerged from the trees onto the neglected road that was now more dirt than stone. The Seeker fortress had been abandoned for some time and fallen into disrepair, if not outright ruin in places where wood rotted and stonework crumbled. Mud squelched around her sensible boots as she trudged toward the main gate, and the rain that had slid from her feathers now soaked into the fabric of her heavy hooded cloak.

Three sodden red banners bearing the sigil of the templar order loomed over the gate and slapped the stone walls as the storm strengthened. Two men in templar garb stood sentinel outside and eyed her warily as she approached. She grimaced beneath her hood—these were practically boys. Recruits. But their youth would work to her advantage—after all, Lady Grace was a harmless elderly woman.

“Halt! State your business.”

“Oh, hello!” She straightened and smiled. “I am Lady Grace Weatherford, here on behalf of their majesties King Alistair and Queen Anora. Do be a dear and tell Lord Seeker Lucius that I wish to speak with him.”

The templars exchanged a confused glance. “He’s not seeing visitors.”

“Well, that is unfortunate.” She folded her hands and adopted a stern frown. “You see, you are occupying Fereldan land, and though the king is quite fond of the Order that affection does not extend to marching an army through his kingdom without so much as a by-your-leave from the Lord Seeker. That makes you the visitors in this situation, so I really must insist on speaking with your commander.”

They hesitated—their hasty training had probably not covered how to deal with a scolding from an grandmotherly mage.

“Now be a good boy and open the gate. I’m soaked to the bone and need a strong cup of tea.”

“Err, yes, milady.”

“Here, lend me your arm.” She patted the nearest templar on his shoulder and hooked her arm through his. Neither guard wore armor, simply the attire of recruits. If an enemy rushed the gate they would be slaughtered instantly. “The thunder startled my horse this morning and she ran off. I’ve had quite a long walk without her.”

The portcullis rose with a metallic groan and she entered the lion’s den. Every templar in the fortress would know she was a mage, which was one of the many reasons why this plan was madness.

_“There’s something wrong with the Order. I need you to find out what’s going on.”_

_She shot Alistair a dry look—he was well aware of her opinions on the templar order—and turned her attention to Anora. “You can’t agree with this.”_

_“Oh no.” Alistair folded his arms. “You’re not teaming up against me this time.”_

_Anora sighed. “I do agree that their presence is a problem that must be handled delicately.”_

_Her lips pressed in an annoyed line—the only way she wanted to handle this particular problem involved burning Therinfal Redoubt to the ground with the templars inside._

_“Why me? Send Eamon. He’s good at this sort of thing, and, more importantly, he’s not a mage.”_

_“The fact that you were a Circle mage is what makes you the most useful for this task,” Anora said. “You understand the Order. You will be able to see problems that Eamon might not.”_

_Damn. There was no arguing with the pair of them when they were a united front--not that she could truly argue with them per the terms of their agreement. Too many lives depended on her._

_She scowled in defeat. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”_

The gatehouse opened into the stables, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell of manure and wet hay. A handful of templars—more young templars—stared at her, and she smiled politely in return. A knight made a beeline for them before they reached the courtyard.

He bowed. “Lady Weatherford, I’m Knight-Templar Delrin Barris. I’m the one who sent word to the king.”

“Oh! Ser Barris, I know your father well.” She smiled—Jevrin Barris had been one of her banns during her time as arlessa of Amaranthine. He was an honest, devout man with a good heart, and Delrin was his second son. The last time she had seen Delrin he and his brother were boys clamoring for her to teach them how to fight darkspawn. “You can escort me and this nice young man can return to his post.”

“Of course, my lady.”

She took his arm but drew him to a halt beneath a stone archway that led to the courtyard. “Where is the rest of the Order?”

“I don’t know.” He grimaced in frustration. She could see a bit of the boy she’d known in the knight he had become. Delrin looked much like his father—tall, broad and dark skinned, though he had his mother’s light green eyes. “As we marched from Orlais the lord seeker ordered companies to split off without warning, and no one knows where they went or why. By the time we arrived here we were left with recruits and a small number of officers.”

“What prompted you to contact the king?”

“Lord Seeker Lucius…” Ser Barris shook his head. “The sky burns with magic, but he ignores all calls to action. Many of us hoped we could aid the Herald of Andraste in finding Divine Justinia’s killers and dealing with the breach in the sky, but the lord seeker would hear none of it. He promised to restore the Order’s honor and marched us here to wait. Lately he sees no one but the officers. We’ve been asked to accept much since Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

“I see.” She gazed at the rainy courtyard and pondered possible strategies. Lord Seeker Lucius was a new opponent, and she hadn’t been able to gather much information on him before Justinia’s conclave. An unstable zealot in charge of the order would benefit no one.

She patted Ser Barris’s forearm. “I’ll do what I can, my dear.”

Ser Barris led her to a room in the barracks to wait for the lord seeker. Another young recruit brought her a pot of tea, and she sat at an ancient wooden table while templars trickled in to share stories of the various problems they had witnessed. They were so young—like the pair guarding the gate. She doubted that any of them had ever served in a Circle, and had likely been in training when the mage rebellion began.

Whatever was going on with the Order, these templars were afraid and looked to her for help—proof that the Maker had a sense of humor.

A small crowd had gathered by the time an officer finally entered, flanked by guards.

“Knight-Captain Denam,” Ser Barris greeted.

“You expected the Lord Seeker,” Denam said.

Lady Grace remained seated and sipped her tea as her stomach soured. This group meant violence, and there was something very wrong with the knight captain and his companions. The air around them hummed with a discordant buzz like the drone of insects in midsummer. This turn was precisely the sort of confrontation she wanted to avoid—Alistair and Anora were so certain that this problem could be solved with discussion alone, but neither of them had lived as a Circle mage. They had never experienced the depths of violence and cruelty that the Order was capable of.

“This is the might of the Fereldan throne? An old woman?” Denam asked.

“Is the lord seeker still occupied?” she asked.

“Your arrival has interrupted the lord seeker’s plans. You’ve stirred up the rest of the order.” Denam sneered at the templars she had collected. “You are all supposed to be changed! The Elder One is coming. No one will Therinfal who is not stained red.”

The templars flanking him raised their bows and fired, but their arrows froze in mid-air when they hit her frost wall. A thin sheet of ice cracked and snapped as the arrows continued to hover, and Lady Grace sipped her tea.

“Please do tell us more about this Elder One,” she said. “It sounds fascinating.”

Knight-Captain Denam snarled and drew his sword, but was promptly thrown back by her whirlwind spell.

“Ser Barris, please restrain your comrades.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Barris shouted orders to the others as he rushed forward, and they quickly subdued their attackers.

Lady Grace rose when the arrows clattered to the floor. “Well done, Ser Barris. Now, whatever is wrong with them?”

The drone increased as she approached the bound knight captain, who had been knocked unconscious during the scuffle. Up close she spied red veins spidering through his skin and a faint red aura that swirled close to his body.

“He doesn’t seem possessed,” she mused. Her cousins had told her of their encounter with possessed templars in Kirkwall, but they had looked and acted similar to possessed blood mages. This was...odd.

“It could be the red lyrium,” Ser Barris said.

“Red lyrium?” She snapped the words so quickly she nearly dropped Lady Grace’s soothing voice.

He nodded. “The officers have been taking it, to show us that it’s all right.”

“Maker’s breath, have you all gone mad? Do none of you remember what happened to Knight-Commander Meredith?”

“They claimed that it was safe now.”

She swallowed a string of curses that were far too vicious to leave Lady Grace’s lips. “Does that look safe to you?”

“Perhaps it’s some sort of mind-control spell. I’ll try to remove it.”

“No, wait—” she warned, but her words came too late. The numbing cold of dispelling magic overwhelmed her as Lady Grace cracked and shattered, revealing her true form.

Stunned silence hung in the air as the templars stared and she scowled. Andraste’s ashen ass. Five years of work ruined by bloody templars.

“Warden-Commander Amell?” Barris asked.

“Well, shit.” Brenna stood still and folded her hands to ease the nerves of the anxious templars. “I told Alistair and Anora that this wouldn’t work. Though none of us expected that the Order would ever be mad enough to willingly expose themselves to red lyrium.”

“So you do serve the crown?” Ser Barris’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword as though uncertain of how to react.

At least he recognized her—that had been one reason she had developed her cover personas. Everyone in the kingdom recognized the Hero of Ferelden. Of course another pressing reason was that the Chantry had placed a hefty price on her head, which she hoped the templars would overlook.

“I am privileged to serve as the Hand of her majesty Queen Anora.”

Before she could continue an inhuman roar split the air like a thunder clap. _“Prepare her! Guide her to me!”_

“Oh, that can’t be good.” Brenna winced, but Ser Barris frowned.

“What isn’t?” he asked.

“You didn’t hear that?”

“No.” 

The rest of the templars shook their heads, which only increased her worry. Then screams and clashing steel rang from outside of the barracks.

“Did you hear that?” She straightened her armored coat and drew her blades.

“Yes, ma’am. Here, the knight-captain’s keys. I would learn more about this Elder One.” Ser Barris drew his sword and readied his shield.

“Combat experience?”

Ser Barris answered yes, but the rest of the templars stared at her wide-eyed as they shook their heads.

Brenna squared her shoulders and barked orders as though they were her own recruits, and they fell into formation. It likely helped that she didn’t look like a mage—her armored coat bore the crimson and gold of Fereldan heraldry, complete with snarling Mabari accents, and she wielded two spellsteel daggers. Zevran often teased her that she looked more like a court assassin than a spellcaster.

“Call out if you need healing,” she ordered as they prepared to join the battle. “Anyone affected by red lyrium cannot be trusted. Do not stay your hand, for they will not stay theirs. Go!”

She led her small group through a series of crumbling hallways and empty rooms, snatching up anything that looked like correspondence and shoving it into her coat pockets.

When they reached the courtyard she grimaced at the scene before them. Since leaving the Circle of Magi, Brenna Amell had fought a variety of horrors from darkspawn to dragons, but Thedas continued to surprise her with new nightmares. Templars battled against their comrades who had been twisted and corrupted by jagged shards of red lyrium that sprouted from their bodies like a grisly parody of a golem’s crystals.

“Hold formation,” she ordered. “Move as one.” Her best bet at keeping them alive was to keep them close enough for her to protect.

_“I would know you. You will be so much more. Show me what you are.”_

A man’s voice spoke above the roar of battle, his words distorted but recognizable. Brenna hurled a stonefist spell into the chest of the nearest creature and knocked it away before it could deliver a death blow to a prone knight. They swarmed the monster and felled it, and Brenna cast a healing spell over the knight.

“Well fought.” He grimaced as he rose. “I don’t know what’s happening. All the officers have turned into those...things.”

“Can you fight?” she asked, and he nodded. “Good. Let’s go.”

The group repeated the process as they swept through the keep, climbing up toward the main hall and the officer’s quarters at the very top. They were too late to save many of the templars. The blood of ravaged corpses stained the stones dark red, and the victims looked as though they had been mauled by great beasts.

“ _The Hero of Ferelden! It’s time we became better acquainted._ ”

“You really can’t hear that?” Brenna asked Ser Barris.

“No. What do you hear?”

“Nothing good.” She frowned—she wasn’t sure what was more worrisome, that she could hear the voice or that the templars couldn’t.

“Here, this is Knight-Captain Denam’s office.” Barris used the key he’d grabbed from Denam and unlocked the door, and they all recoiled at the smell of rotted flesh.

They found a twisted, decayed corpse within the office, and Ser Barris grimaced. “That’s the knight vigilant. The lord seeker told us he died at the Conclave! Was Denam hiding the body for the lord seeker? Did he kill the man himself? Maker, what’s happening to the Order?”

Brenna didn’t comment. The knight vigilant was a well-known opponent, or at least he had been. Stodgy old bird, predictable as a sunrise. Lord Seeker Lucius had no doubt used his predictability to lure him to his death. She crossed to the desk and briefly searched it for correspondence, adding the few things she found to her pockets before they moved on.

By the time they reached the final set of stairs she was convinced that whoever designed Therinfal Redoubt had patterned it after Kirkwall—one long staircase after another.

_“Come, show me what kind of woman you really are.”_

Her jaw clenched as she marched toward the figure at the top of the stairs, his back turned toward her.

“Lord Seeker!” Ser Barris called out.

Ah. The bastard was waiting for them. How polite. She readied her blades—she would strike to incapacitate, keep him alive to question—but he spun on his heels and grabbed her coat by its collar.

“At _last_.”

Off-balanced, he dragged her toward the doors and the world around her vanished.


	2. Bodies Are Such Limiting Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Amell faces her past in Envy's realm.

Clouds of thick green fog pressed against Brenna and weighed her down as though she’d been thrown into a deep emerald lake. Whispered voices filled the fog, just loud enough for her to catch occasional words.

_Join us, brothers and sisters… I was outmaneuvered… It brought me you… There can be no compromise… It’s time to go._

The fog receded and she emerged into a dungeon, her vision blurred and the ground tilted drunkenly beneath her feet. She swallowed hard—it reminded her of the dungeon beneath Kinloch Hold, and phantom pain seared through the scars on her back. But Kinloch’s dungeon didn’t have great shards of red lyrium bursting through the floor.

 _Red lyrium_. There was something important about red lyrium just at the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t remember what. Her mind felt as hazy as the fog she had just stepped out from.

Two figures waited on a low dais at the end of the room—hazy copies of Alistair and Anora, tinged with green auras.

“Is this shape useful?” Anora stepped forward. “Will it let me know you?”

“Not really,” Brenna said. “I’ve been trying to know Anora for years, but sadly she isn’t attracted to women.”

Brenna clapped a hand over her mouth, surprised by the blurted admission. Maker, was she drunk? She rarely imbibed more than one glass of wine. What was wrong with her?

Anora’s imposter frowned—a perfect mimic of the expression often directed at Brenna. Most people would have assumed that she would be the hand of the king, but even now Alistair harbored a soft heart. Brenna and Anora did not suffer from that affliction—Anora didn’t hesitate to order an assassination when necessary, and Brenna didn’t hesitate to follow her queen’s order.

The imposter recovered quickly. “Do you know what the mage rebellion can become? Glory is coming, and the Elder One wants you to serve like everyone else—by dying in the right way.”

“Dying isn’t part of this assignment.” Brenna’s brow furrowed—she was on an assignment, wasn’t she? A task for the crown?

“Everything tells me of you.”

“Which me?”

Another confused frown. This time Alistair approached her. “You are the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Oh, that me.” Brenna tilted her head. “Are you sure? When I arrived I was Lady Weatherford.”

That’s right—she had been fighting alongside Ser Barris and the young templars against their corrupted comrades. The lord seeker grabbed her...and now she was here. The Fade? A seeker couldn’t pull her into the Fade.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers. An Envy demon?” She scowled in disgust—templars, red lyrium, and now a demon. “All this fuss from one measly Envy demon?”

“Measly?” Anora’s imposter gaped, insulted.

“Pathetic. I don’t have time for this.” She turned on her heel and walked away.

 _“You can’t run from me. I am Envy, and I will know you.”_ The demon’s voice echoed around her as she reached a heavy wooden door.

“You have it backward. _You_ can’t run from _me_.”

Brenna shoved the heavy door open and stepped into a room with cells to either side. Ghostly forms argued in the center of the room—Nathaniel, Bethany, and Brenna on one side and Anders and Hawke on the other. Or at least it looked like Brenna, just a shadowy shell with eyes that glowed an otherworldly green.

They were aboard Isabella’s ship, sailing toward Amaranthine after Anders had destroyed half of Hightown and arguing over what to do next. They reached an impasse that was about to be shattered in a way none of them could have predicted.

Silence fell over the scene as the shimmering form of Flemeth sauntered down the stairs across from Brenna and joined the ghosts.

“ _It seems to me that you have a choice to make_ ,” Flemeth said. “ _You cannot fight two battles in what is to come. Choose wisely. Are you a mage, or a grey warden_?”

One by one Anders, Bethany, and finally Brenna answered mage. Nathaniel raised his hand. “ _I am not a mage, but I support my wife._ ”

“ _Good man._ ” Flemeth grinned and raised her hand, and four streams of energy flowed from the grey wardens and formed a swirling sphere in her palm. “ _Then you no longer need this. Fight well. Succeed and you may build a new age of magic. Fail, and magic will continue to diminish into legend._ ”

The figures flickered and vanished, and the demon hissed. “ _Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker. No more boring templars. I will command legions of mages._ ”

“Good luck with that,” Brenna muttered as she crossed the empty room. If the mage rebellion had taught her anything, it was that it was nigh impossible to get mages to agree on anything. Hence why the mages had split into so many factions.

She opened the second door and entered another cell with translucent figures in the center. Bound templars knelt in a row while a tall woman with broad shoulders and short, pale hair paced in front of them.

“ _Each of you shall be judged,”_ she said. _“If you have upheld the tenets of the Order with honor and treated your charges with dignity, you will be free to go. If you have abused your power and used it to harm those in your care.”_ The mage paused, folded her hands and tilted her head as she surveyed the templars. “ _Well, then we have a problem.”_

The figures faded and the demon hissed.

 _“Every action tells me more about yourself._ ”

“That’s not me, that’s a Judge,” Brenna replied. “They dispense justice after a Circle is liberated. Never the same judge twice. That’s a lot of people to know. Maybe you should start writing this down.”

It had been good practice in creating new personas—a new mage each time, never heard from again. She was true to her word. Vicious templars were executed, those who were true to their duty were released, and those who were friendly to mages like Ser Thrask were recruited to their cause. Brenna’s vision wasn’t a world without templars, it was a world where mages and templars worked together to fight the corruption of demons and blood magic.

Envy growled and the stone floor trembled beneath her boots. “ _I am not your toy. I will be you._ ”

Brenna snorted. “ _Toy_ implies that I’m having fun. I’m not. This is tedious. I’ve defeated scores of your kind. You’re just one more.”

The demon howled as she crossed the room and opened the door. Strange rotating columns lined the center of a great hall, and carved faces belched gouts of green fire.

“Temper, temper. I thought Rage demons specialized in fire?” She winced at the blast of heat and sweat broke out across her brow. If Envy had pulled her into the Fade like the Sloth demon had at Kinloch Hold, then she was vulnerable to harm. A mage who died in the Fade never woke again.

She followed the wall to her right and ducked into an alcove for safety. Soldiers wearing unfamiliar colors milled about in small groups, praising the leadership of the Hero of Ferelden and the glory of the Elder One.

 _Elder One_? That was new—something of Envy’s? Or Lord Seeker Lucius? How long had Envy been masquerading as the lord seeker? Since before the conclave?

Brenna avoided the flames as she made her way through the hall until she finally spotted another wooden door. She frowned as she entered a small topsy-turvy bedroom. Furniture and pieces of parchment clung to the ceiling and walls without rhyme or reason.

_“You’re hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?”_

A different voice this time—male, but not the lord seeker’s voice.

 _“What are you?”_ Envy asked. _“Get out! This is my place.”_

Had someone else strayed into Envy’s corner of the Fade? Perhaps one of the templars had been pulled in with her.

“Hello? Is someone there?” No answer. Shaking her head, she turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The room was still empty when she turned back, but the voice continued.

“I’ve been watching. Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. I want to help. You. Not Envy.”

“Thank you, I think. Who are you?”

“I’m Cole. We’re inside you.”

She turned again and spotted a young man in ragged clothing and an almost comically oversized hat standing on the ceiling. She blinked as she processed that comment, and Cole continued.

“Envy hurts you, is hurting you. I tried to help. Then I was here, in the hearing. It’s—it’s not usually like this.”

“Ah. We’re not in the Fade, then.” She grimaced—that meant Envy was squatting in her mind, picking through her memories as it learned how to become her. “Why are you here?”

“I was watching,” Cole said. “I watch. Every templar knew when you arrived. Many came to you for help, but you weren’t you. You were her.”

“Fair. And then we were attacked by the templars corrupted by red lyrium.”

“Yes.” Cole nodded and the brim of his hat bobbed. “It twisted the commanders, forced their fury, their fight. They’re red inside. Anyway, you’re frozen. Envy is trying to take your face, I heard it and reached out, and then in, and then I was here.”

“So you need to escape, too. I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

“Yes. All of this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to make more. Tires it out.”

“Got it. Thanks.” Brenna turned to leave, and when she reached the door she looked back and Cole had disappeared.

A second gauntlet of rotating, flaming columns awaited, and she sighed.

“ _This way_ ,” Cole’s voice instructed. “ _Ideas are loud here. Make them louder. Think of water._ ”

Simple enough. She imagined sheets of water cascading from the ceiling and the green fire was doused.

“ _That thing can’t help you_ ,” Envy snarled. “ _I will see more_.”

“Don’t worry. This will be a real show.”

Brenna journeyed through more ghostly memories, but now she walked through them on her mission to wear Envy down. She left the dungeon behind and entered a courtyard—Therinfal Redoubt, recreated in her mind. It made sense—Envy was using a setting it was familiar with instead of stretching its energy to create something new. Red lyrium shards burst from the ground and green fog swirled around her feet, but at least it wasn’t raining.

Cole perched atop a crate. “Almost there. Keep going up. You’re making it hard for Envy to think. It will probably come out soon. It’s angry, but that’s okay. So are you.”

Brenna smiled.

“ _Silence, Compassion!_ ”

Compassion? Unexpected, but useful.

As she moved through the keep she encountered more scenes, but instead of images from her thoughts, these revealed pieces of Envy’s plan as the demon began to crack. Soldiers spoke of how Orlais had been destroyed by a demon army. She passed a group of Orlesian refugees discussing how Tevinter had fallen, and Antiva was besieged by the demons who took Val Royeaux. Brenna wouldn’t cry for Orlais or Tevinter, but Zevran would be heartbroken if something happened to Antiva.

“They say the Hero of Ferelden summoned these demons after Celene was murdered,” a refugee said.

“Bullshit,” Brenna muttered. “No one would believe I’d turned malificar after I’ve spent my life killing them.”

At the top of the stairs Envy waited, a poisonous green shadow of Brenna’s form. It lunged for Brenna and she punched it in the jaw.

“Unfair,” it howled as it spun away. “That thing kept you whole. Kept you from giving me your shape.”

“It’s frightened of you,” Cole said. She spied him standing atop the open palm of a statue.

“It damn well better be.” Brenna surged forward and reached for the demon’s throat, and the creature screeched as the world shattered.

Brenna found herself once again standing in front of the doors to the main hall, but Lord Seeker Lucius was gone. The demon’s spindly, awful true form had been revealed—a thing of twisted flesh and impossibly long limbs. It screeched and darted away, and Brenna rounded on the templars behind her.

“How the fuck does the entire Templar Order not notice that they’re being led by a demon? Honestly! You had one bloody job to do!”


	3. Holding Out for a Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hero of Ferelden becomes the unlikely shield protecting the surviving templars from their red brethren.

After thoroughly dressing down the gathered templars, Brenna focused on their next steps. The demon couldn’t have gone far—knowing Envy it would lurk nearby for a second chance at copying her, or it would seek out a new victim.

“We need untainted lyrium to hold the demon long enough for you to slay it,” Ser Barris said.

“How many templars do we have?” Brenna asked. The original group had picked up survivors as they battled up through the fortress to the main hall, and they had found a small number sheltered within the hall.

“Thirty-eight. There may yet be officers alive. The lieutenants might not have taken the lyrium yet.”

She nodded, careful not to reveal how horrified she was by that number. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of templars had marched from Val Royeaux. She knew that only a fraction had arrived at Therinfal, but thirty-eight? Maker’s breath.

“Right.” Brenna began pulling potions and grenades from within her coat. “Here, take these. Use them wisely. Antivan fire—don’t burn the place down. Pitch grenades, confusion grenades, rock armor tonics, and healing potions.”

Barris’s eyes widened, but he nodded. “Thank you. My lady, if I may ask, why are you helping us? You’re a leader of the mage rebellion.”

“Their majesties are helping you.” Brenna smiled dryly. “King Alistair was undergoing templar training when he was recruited for the wardens, so he’s rather fond of you lot. Besides, I’d be a rotten hero if I let you all die.”

Plus, she had always respected his father, Bann Jevrin Barris. She never expected to miss being arlessa, but she did. She did her best to look after Amaranthine in her role as the queen’s hand, but it wasn’t the same. Jevrin might not be one of her banns anymore, but she refused to let his son die.

Ser Barris nodded. “I understand.”

Brenna chose a small team of four to accompany her and placed Ser Barris in charge of holding the hall and protecting those inside.

“I’ve got point.” She opened the door and peered into an empty, darkened corridor. Rain pounded on the roof as she led them toward the courtyard. “Stay together. No heroics.”

The storm had whipped into a frenzy as though the Maker himself was irritated by the Order’s failure to notice the demon in their midst. The pouring rain obscured their vision and muffled sound, which would make it even more difficult to locate survivors and enemies lying in wait.

When the group emerged into a courtyard they spotted a templar surrounded by three corrupted monsters. Brenna whistled to gain the beasts’ attention and cast a pull of the abyss spell to drag the creatures away from their victim. They shrieked and clawed at the mud as they tried to break free of the spell.

“Archers, fire,” she ordered. Two of her templars drew their bows and fired on their trapped targets as the rest of the group charged ahead. “Stand ready!”

The magic waned and Brenna pounced on the nearest red templar. She buried her spell blades in its neck and channeled an immolate spell through them, roasting the beast from the inside out. For the two remaining creatures she circled around and flanked them as her templars held their attention, and they dropped quickly.

The lieutenant wiped sweat from her brow and spat a mouthful of blood.

“You all right?” Brenna asked. The woman nodded as she caught her breath. “Good. Get to the Main Hall. Barris will explain.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They moved from area to area, rescuing survivors and defeating red templars with a moderate amount of injuries to her team. Brenna took a hard elbow to the face that rattled her brain and felt as though it broke her cheekbone. A healing spell mended the damage but it would leave an ugly bruise.

The group cut across an empty courtyard to reach a stairwell to the officers’ quarters. A high-pitched whine caught her attention as they climbed the first flight of stairs, and on the landing she found a knight and an injured Mabari hound. She checked the knight first, but his eyes were fixed in death and his head lolled at an unnatural angle.

She cooed to the hound as she knelt beside it and examined its wounds.

“Leave it.” The young templar—one of her archers—spoke with an Orlesian accent. “There’s no time.”

“This is Ferelden, cheese monger. There’s always time for Mabari.” She cast a healing spell that closed the hound’s gaping wounds. It stirred and rolled to its feet, and then it nudged the fallen knight and whimpered.

“That’s your handler?” Brenna asked. “I’m sorry. Stick close to me and I’ll look after you.”

The hound hesitated—some Mabari never recovered from losing their handler and wasted away until they followed their master into death. It nudged the body again, but then reluctantly positioned itself at Brenna’s side.

“Let’s go.”

They emerged from the stairwell and the Orlesian led them to a heavy wooden door. “This is the Lord Seeker’s office.” He turned the knob and frowned. “It’s locked.”

“Not a problem.” Brenna withdrew a set of thieves’ tools from within her coat. She knelt before the lock as the templars gaped at her.

“Where did you learn to pick locks?”

Brenna snorted. “From the Left Hand of the Divine. There, got it.”

She rose and pushed the door open to reveal a blood-spattered room filled with chaos. Papers were scattered across the desk in the center of the room and over the floor around it. Ominous red markings covered the walls—stylized eyes.

“Gather the lyrium,” she ordered. Brenna approached the marble bust in the center of the desk and yanked a dagger free from its face. “Empress Celene.”

“The Elder One hates her. Wants her dead.”

She turned and spotted Cole seated atop a barrel, his feet kicking in time to a beat she couldn’t hear. 

“There you are. I wondered what happened to you.” Brenna dropped the dagger. “I’m not fond of Celene, either.”

Her service to the Fereldan crown had acquainted her the perils of Orlesian politics, and, Maker help her, she was beginning to understand the paranoid hatred that had fueled Teyrn Loghain’s decisions during the Blight.

Brenna picked up as many pieces of parchment as possible and stuffed them into her coat. She would sort through them later—they might be covered with the same nonsense as the walls, but hopefully there would be some useful information within the mess.

She met with Ser Barris when they returned to the main hall. A few corpses of tainted creatures were scattered about the room. “How many red templars have you fought?”

“Some broke through to siege the Main Hall.”

“Any casualties?”

“No, thanks to your healing potions.”

“Good.” She nodded toward the untainted lyrium. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Her rescued mabari stayed at her side as she checked on the wounded. The templars gathered around a shrine at the head of the hall as they prepared for their ritual.

“They’re afraid.” Cole stood in the shadow of a stone column, his gaze focused on his boots. Brenna tried to peer beneath the brim of his hat, to no avail. The mabari sniffed him and tilted its head, as though unsure what to make of him.

“I know.”

“You’re taking care of them. A mother mabari protecting her pups.”

The corners of her mouth twitched—it was an apt description. Brenna had been protecting her men since her days as warden commander.

Ser Barris motioned to her and she joined him at the shrine. “We’re ready. This much energy will draw corrupted templars. Keep them off us and we’ll break this beast.”

“Understood.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Maker watch over you.”

She turned and eyed the layout of the hall, and then whistled for the templars’ attention. “I want archers there and there.” She pointed to the top of two sets of scaffolding. “The rest of you stay behind this line. Make them come to you.” She looked down at the hound. “You, too. I’ll be up with the archers.”

She climbed atop the scaffolding and nodded to Ser Barris, and they began their ritual.

As predicted, corrupted templars poured into the main hall. “Fire!”

The archers loosed a volley of arrows, and Brenna glanced back at the rest of the men below. “Hold the line!”

The first group of red templars reached the scaffolding, and Brenna unleashed hell. She dropped every storm in her arsenal as the waves approached—blizzards, fire, lightning, wind. Wounded creatures stumbled away and were picked off by the archers or finished off by the troops below.

“The beast,” Ser Barris called. “End it!”

Brenna leapt down and dashed to the rear of the hall. The mabari sprinted and caught up with her, and they emerged into an open area dotted with crumbling stone columns. A garden, perhaps?

Envy waited and cackled mocking laughter. “I touched so much of you, but you are selfish with your glory. Now I am no one.”

Cole appeared beside her, a blade in each hand. “Dark and desperate, death to make yourself alive. I’m not like that anymore. You shouldn’t be either.”

They darted forward together. Brenna didn’t often fight large creatures anymore—most of her work involved a silent dagger in the dark in service to the crown or the mage rebellion. She treated the demon like a dragon and focused on disabling its limbs before targeting its body.

She was fast, but Cole was faster. He moved in a blur that struck in one place one moment and appeared in another the next. The demon shifted forms, but each shift drained its energy—a problem Brenna was well acquainted with as a shapeshifter.

In the end, a simple Envy demon had no chance against the Hero of Ferelden, who had slain an Archdemon. Cole disappeared once the demon was defeated, and Brenna and the mabari returned to the waiting templars.

“The demon is dead.” Ser Barris grinned. “Maker be praised, He shielded you from his touch.”

“More or less. I think I cracked a few ribs.” She grimaced and straightened. “Casualties?”

“None.”

“Good.”

“What do we do now?” a templar asked.

Though their number was small, there were too many to take to Sanctuary—she couldn’t trust that they were all suitable to join her cause. All it would take was one traitor to leak Sanctuary’s location and put everyone there in danger.

“You can’t stay here,” she said. “I don’t know who or what this Elder One is, but I’m sure we don’t want to be here when it arrives.”

“Agreed,” Ser Barris said.

“I can take you to Denerim,” she said. “Their majesties might be able to help you from there.”

“We could go to the Inquisition,” Ser Barris suggested.

Brenna resisted the urge to frown. She had monitored the Inquisition since it formed in Haven. Alistair and Anora were both justifiably angered at a foreign power raising an army on Ferelden soil. Brenna worried about the long game—the chantry was fractured, but eventually it would sort itself out and bring Justinia’s Inquisition under its wing. Orlais did not need another army to command, especially if Grand Duke Gaspard wrenched the throne away from Celene. Gaspard wanted to bring Ferelden to heel and restore control over the empire’s wayward province.

Brenna would gut him first.

She glanced at the distant Breach in the sky—it was easier to ignore the problem when it was far away. Despite her best efforts, her spells had no effect on the rifts. Maybe the templars pups could do something to help seal the Breach.

“I can take you as far as the road to Haven,” she said. “It will be a long haul with the wounded.”

“We would be grateful for your aid, Lady Brenna.”

She nodded. “Let’s get started. The sooner we’re on the road, the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed Ser Barris's background a bit so his father's bannorn is in Amaranthine.


	4. The Long and Winding Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Amell leads the surviving templars through Ferelden.

“Chain of command.”

“Ma’am?” Ser Barris frowned at Brenna.

A pile of papers from Therinfal filled her lap as she sat cross-legged in front of the campfire, Ser Barris to one side and her sleeping adopted mabari on the other. She picked up the top two letters—a knight captain detailed the strengthening effects of the red lyrium and several unpleasant side effects, and in return his commander assured him that the sickness and nightmares would pass. She handed them to Ser Barris.

“There are a few pieces of correspondence like that,” she said. “The officers trusted their commanders instead of their own instincts. Anyone who could have stopped them, like the knight vigilant, was led to their death.”

“What do you know about this red lyrium?” Barris asked. “You were at the Gallows when Knight-Commander Meredith…”

“Turned into a creepy statue, yes.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes—after seeing her templar pups to safety she was going to indulge in a well-deserved rest, orders be damned. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The red lyrium sword made her super fast and incredibly strong, but it also brought all the statues in the courtyard to life. Marian and Varric know more about it, they found the idol.”

She handed him the rest of the pile and let him read through it. The papers left her with more questions than answers about what had been going on at Therinfal Redoubt.

Most of the pups were asleep in their tents, exhausted from the hard march from the fortress. After Envy had been defeated, Brenna barked orders as though she was their commanding officer—and she was, in a way, considering they didn’t have anyone above left above lieutenant.

The templars still possessed the equipment wagons they had brought them from Orlais, so loading them up again was simple enough. She put the remaining lieutenants in charge of collecting gear and supplies, and while they worked she swept the fortress for survivors. By the time they finished the total number of templars in her care had swelled to sixty, though a dozen of them were badly wounded.

They marched from Therinfal just before sunset, and she kept them moving through the night and the next day to gain as much distance as possible. She half expected creatures corrupted by red lyrium to burst from the trees and attack them at any moment, but the journey had been quiet and they made camp at dusk.

Ser Barris scowled as he handed the papers back to her. “I don’t understand how this could happen to the Order.”

“The Order has had problems with corruption for years. This is the first time it’s been quite so easy to spot. Red lyrium is not subtle.” Brenna rolled the papers up and tied them with a string before returning the bundle to her coat. 

“An Envy demon could not have concocted this plan. They steal ideas because they have none of their own.”

She nodded. “This Elder One is running things, though to what end I’ve no idea. Where did they find the red lyrium? My wardens searched for that thaig for years with little success. And why poison the Order with it? Turning templars into monsters seems a poor way to hunt mages.”

“Could mages have done this?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Mages are the other power with an interest in lyrium. It’s certainly not any of my people.”

Barris’s brow rose. “How do you know?”

“Because my people like templars.” She patted his shoulder amiably. “You should get some sleep. It’s going to be a long haul to Haven.”

Therinfal Redoubt and Haven were on opposite sides of Ferelden, and large groups traveled slowly under the best conditions. Considering that the kingdom was dotted with fade rifts and besieged by rogue templars, crazed apostates and Maker knew what else, the conditions were less than ideal.

“You should get some rest as well,” he countered as he rose.

“I don’t sleep.”

Ser Barris peered down at her. “Truly?”

“I’ve seen too much.” She smiled dryly. “My nightmares are spectacular. I’m going to join the watch.”

He nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. “Understood. Maker watch over you.”

Brenna nudged the sleeping mabari. “Come on, Ser Aveline. We’re going to check the perimeter.”

The hound grumbled as she rose and stretched. Brenna had dubbed her Ser Aveline Sharptooth due to the mabari's bright red coat and slight underbite. Like the templars, the hound followed her for now but the arrangement wasn’t permanent. Brenna suspected that Ser Aveline would find someone to form a permanent bond with at Haven.

They had set camp in a clearing not far from the road—the flat area was good for pitching tents but was also exposed to attack by potential enemies. She had assigned watch shifts, and was pleased to find that the first watch was awake and alert.

Brenna and Ser Aveline Sharptooth started a circuit of the camp’s perimeter, and they were soon joined by Cole.

“You’re afraid to see him,” Cole announced.

She scowled. “Alistair should be afraid to see _me_ after this debacle. I told him this wouldn’t work.”

“Not the king. The knight.”

Brenna paused and peered at him, wondering how he knew that. Ah. _Compassion_. Cole was sifting through her hurt to find a way to help her, and that particular wound had never quite healed. She breathed deeply to fight the tightness in her throat.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to see Cullen. I’m not going to Haven.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s not part of my assignment. I’m due to report back to Denerim, and then I’m going home.”

“But you could help at Haven,” Cole said. “The templars hope to heal the breach in the sky.”

“Which is why the Inquisition has the Herald of Andraste. They don’t need me.”

“The knight and the nightingale do.”

Brenna snorted and shook her head. “I’m not part of their divine purpose.”

“You could be.”

“No, Cole.” She had accepted that Leliana was lost to her when she became the Left Hand of the Divine, and the divide between Brenna and Cullen was now famously depicted in Varric Tethras’s _The Tale of the Champion_.

_“Sorry, Kingmaker, but it was too good to pass up,” Varric said. “Everyone loves a doomed romance subplot.”_

_“But you already had a doomed romance main plot between Hawke and Anders.”_

_“Bah, it’s not the same. Templar and Circle mage is a classic. Readers love that shit.”_

“How are the wounded faring?” Brenna asked. Cole launched into a detailed description of each templar's current condition, and they left the topic behind. 

***

The Inquisition didn’t approach them until they had nearly reached the Crossroads in the Hinterlands. Their scouts monitored the caravan’s progress, and Brenna monitored the scouts from the air as a crow. She was both impressed and dismayed by the scouts’ numbers, but not surprised—Leliana was skilled at her work. Sometimes too skilled for Brenna’s liking when their agents crossed paths.

The crow swooped down beside Knight-Templar Barris and reverted to her true form. He barely startled—he was getting used to Brenna’s sudden transformations.

“There’s a group of Inquisition soldiers blocking the road ahead.”

“You think there will be trouble?” Barris asked.

“I always expect trouble,” she said. “That way I’m not surprised when it happens. Grab Knight-Lieutenant Hayes and we’ll meet them.”

Knight-Lieutenant Hayes had been the first officer she saved at Therinfal, and she was the most useful of the officers. Brenna whistled for Ser Aveline Sharptooth and jogged to the head of the caravan. Barris and Hayes joined her just in time to meet the soldiers.

“Hold. State your business.”

“We are traveling to Haven to join the Inquisition,” Hayes said. The soldiers seemed surprised by this, and Brenna didn’t blame them.

“All of you?”

“Not me,” Brenna said. “I’m just escorting them there.” She tilted her head. “Under whose authority are you stopping travelers on the king’s road?”

“The Inquisition’s.”

“Really.” She folded her hands. “Is the Inquisition claiming dominion over Ferelden’s sovereign land?”

The man hesitated. “This area is under our protection.”

“I see. I’m sure their majesties will thank you for your service.”

“Who are you to question the Inquisition?”

“Brenna Amell.”

The soldier scoffed as though she had announced she was divine Andraste herself. When she didn’t join in on the joke he eyed her warily. “You’re not serious.”

“Quite serious,” Ser Barris said. “We’d all be dead if not for Lady Amell.”

The Inquisition soldiers peered at her with new interest, looking from her to Ser Aveline Sharptooth. Every statue of the Hero of Ferelden—and there were far too many statues of her in her opinion—featured two accurate details. First, the Mabari at her side, and second, her signature hairstyle. The rest of the details seemed to have been left to the artist’s discretion, much to her dismay.

“Apologies, my lady. The Inquisition would never interfere with Ferelden rule.”

“Of course. I’ll be sure to include that in my report.” She smiled thinly and the poor man blanched. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

“Yes, of course. Please proceed.”

Knight-Lieutenant Hayes chuckled as the Inquisition troops waved them on. “Lady Brenna, you near made that man piss himself.”

“I have that effect on people.”

Their route avoided Redcliffe village, because they didn’t need to agitate Fiona’s mages—Brenna was not looking forward to the argument she was going to have with Fiona when they next met. They chose to travel through the Crossroads instead to resupply for the rest of their journey.

The Inquisition troops stationed at the Crossroads were prepared for their arrival—scouts must have sent the word ahead. This meeting was more polite now that the Inquisition knew of the templars’ intention to join, and word had spread like wildfire that the Hero of Ferelden had returned. Refugees clustered together to get a glimpse of her.

“There are so many of them,” she murmured.

“They thought the world was ending when the sky split,” Cole said. “Scared, shaking. They were driven from their homes and sought safety here.”

“And we couldn’t help them.” Brenna grimaced. It reminded her too much of Lothering, where the villagers were desperate for aid that would never come. Her gut twisted with guilt—it felt as though they had abandoned the people again, but Ferelden’s resources had been spread thin before the Conclave exploded.

Recovery from the Blight had been slow. Portions of land in the south like Ostagar and Lothering had been poisoned and might never heal. Many Fereldans fled the Blight and never returned, like those who had built new lives in the Free Marches. It was as if a generation of Fereldans had vanished—dead or displaced—and their loss left a hole in the kingdom’s economy. It was one of the reasons Anora had wrangled Brenna into the queen’s service. The kingdom needed all the help it could get, and a shapeshifting mage was too valuable an asset to pass up.

The Inquisition was providing the aid that the kingdom couldn’t. If the crown didn’t act, they risked losing the loyalty of their subjects to the Inquisition. _Shit._

“Lady Amell, I’m Corporal Vale. How can we help you?”

Brenna turned and smiled at the soldier. “Actually, I was wondering how their majesties might help you?”


	5. Loved and Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sister Nightingale and Commander Cullen learn of the reappearance of the Hero of Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of withdrawal symptoms as Cullen goes through lyrium withdrawal.

_ Sister Nightingale entered Cullen’s office as he finished writing a report. There was much to do before he left Kirkwall—he had little business left for the Order, but Guard-Captain Aveline and Mistress Lirene kept finding “just one more thing” that needed his attention in the city. The local Circle had never recovered after the champion absconded with most of its mages, and with no mages to monitor the remaining templars focused on rebuilding Kirkwall under Cullen’s command. _

_ Cullen cocked an eyebrow as Sister Nightingale set a bottle and two glasses on the desk between them.  _

_ “I thought we might share a drink in honor of our mutual friend before we leave for Ferelden.” _

_ He frowned as he reviewed the little he knew about her background. Not much was known about the mysterious Left Hand of the Divine—mostly whispers and rumors. Something about her title jogged a memory and his eyes widened as he sat back. _

_ “You’re Brenna’s Nightingale.” _

_ “Just so.” She smiled and poured for both of them. “You may call me Leliana.”  _

_ That was it—Leliana. She traveled with Brenna during the Blight and helped her defeat the Archdemon. Brenna spoke fondly of her nightingale in her letters. Her Nightingale and her Crow—the trio had been lovers. Cullen blushed at the realization that their “mutual friend” was a mutual lover. _

_ “You haven’t heard from her?” she asked. _

_ “No. Have you?” _

_ “No.”  _

_ Cullen sighed and reached for his glass. No letters, no notes, not the slightest hint of contact. All he had left of his time with Brenna were the books she had sent him and the needlepoint token she had made for him. Thanks to Knight-Commander Meredith’s paranoia he had burned Brenna’s letters to prevent them from being found when Meredith had the barracks searched. _

_ “Do you think Brenna will attend the conclave?” Cullen asked. _

_ “No. We’ve heard rumors of her involvement in the mage rebellion, but she has been careful to leave no solid evidence of it. No one has seen her or Marian Hawke since they left Kirkwall, and I doubt that they will surface while the chantry continues to offer a bounty for their arrest.” _

_ Left Kirkwall—as though it were that simple. Brenna and Marian stood against Knight-Commander Meredith’s attempt to annul the circle, and they somehow managed to sneak most of the mages out of the Gallows and onto a ship. It was the sort of mad plan that people associated with the Champion of Kirkwall, but executed with the careful strategy of the Hero of Ferelden. _

_ Brenna had wanted him to leave with her, had reached out to him after the battle...and he did nothing. Her anguished expression haunted him to this day. _

_ He raised his glass. “To the Hero of Ferelden.” _

_ “Wherever she might be.” _

_ They drank, and though he couldn’t be certain he thought the wine tasted of regret. _

***

“News from the Herald?” Cullen asked. Leliana had summoned him to the war room despite the late hour, likely knowing that he was still awake. The Herald had left to confront the magister who had indentured Grand Enchanter Fiona and her mages, and they were awaiting news of the herald’s success—or failure.

“No.” Leliana shook her head as she frowned at the map. “News from the Hero of Ferelden.”

“What?” He frowned, certain he had heard that wrong.

“Brenna Amell just left the Crossroads with a group of young templars who are seeking to join the Inquisition.” She placed a silver token on the map to denote the group’s current location.

“Templars? Now I know you’re not serious.”

“We know the templars reached out to King Alistair, and I suspected that she’s been working with him. It’s clever. Their majesties couldn’t be interrogated about her whereabouts, and Alistair would never betray her to the Chantry.” Leliana sighed. “My agents monitored the palace for any sign of her, but she’s a shapeshifter. No one would notice a cat prowling the halls, or a bird perched in the courtyard.”

“Why reveal herself now?”

“Because there is no Chantry to arrest her, for one. According to the report from my agent, Brenna doesn’t intend to come here. She’s only leading the templars as far as the road to Haven.” She peered at him. “Are you all right?”

“Are you?” Cullen countered.  _ Maker’s breath. _ He had more than enough Inquisition business to occupy himself with, and all while dealing with the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal. His nightmares had plenty of fuel without adding new regrets to the fire.

“I don’t know. Part of me thought I’d never see her again.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “But I’m not famous for my tragic romance with her.”

Cullen scowled and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “When Varric’s book was published I didn’t expect to be part of it. Then I noticed whispers in the barracks whenever I walked through, and several of the young women would sigh and stare when they thought I wasn’t looking.”

Leliana grinned. “They wanted to heal your broken heart.”

“A broken heart was the least of my problems in Kirkwall. What do you intend to do?”

“Monitor their progress for now. I’ll let Josephine know as well.”

“Are you going to contact Brenna?”

Leliana pursed her lips. “Hmm. Perhaps, but not yet.”

“Very well. Keep me updated.”

A gust of frigid air sliced through his armor as he left the chantry. The snow had started after nightfall and now it coated the paths, concealing the ice beneath it in a treacherous layer of white. Cullen nodded to a patrol and pretended not to notice when one of its members slipped and nearly lost his footing.

He never would have chosen Haven as a base for the Inquisition, but needs must. It would be worse come winter—this was the “mild” weather of autumn. He carefully made his way through the village and down to the temporary barracks. If they were to stay through winter they would need to build proper structures to house the troops or risk tents collapsing under the weight of snow and ice.

The commander was afforded his own tent, yet the extra space seemed to make it colder than the rest. With a sigh he returned to his desk and relit the lantern, illuminating the reports he had been writing when Leliana’s summons came.

_ Brenna Amell. _ He hadn’t realized how much he relied on her letters until they stopped arriving—how her stories of life in Amaranthine lifted his spirits and her faith in him steeled his resolve to right the wrongs in the Gallows. He flexed his hands to warm his fingers and he frowned at the slight tremor that shook them. After Knight-Commander Meredith’s defeat he discovered that she had reduced the lyrium dosage, essentially watering it down for weeks without informing anyone of the change. As a result the templars under her command had been on edge and jittery, which had only made matters in Kirkwall worse.

What did it mean if Brenna had truly resurfaced? Could they stand together, finally on the same side? He was no longer a templar and the chantry was in no shape to hunt her—for “questioning” according to the bounty letter, though Cullen knew that Brenna wouldn’t go quietly to interrogation like Varric Tethras had. If Cassandra and Brenna were ever in the same room it was sure to end in bloodshed.

Shaking the thought away, he focused on the one matter he could do anything about at the moment—slaying paperwork.


	6. New Friends and Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Haven the Hero of Ferelden meets new friends who remind her of her old life at Kinloch Hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are content warnings for this chapter because Brenna copes with her trauma from the Ferelden Circle of Magi. There were mentions of this sprinkled throughout Part One, but now she's going to start facing her past.
> 
> CW for mentions of past sexual assault, birth trauma, and child loss.

_The world seemed wider after leaving the Brecilian Forest—no thick canopy of leaves blotted out the sun, and the wide, dusty road to Denerim stretched ahead of them instead of a twisted path through gnarled trees. Brenna was glad to leave the forest behind and the ancient hatred that had stained it. She tried not to think of Zathrian and his “justice”, but her fears whispered to her. How far would she go to seek retribution against the templars of Kinloch Hold? As far as Uldred’s bloody rebellion? As far as Zathrian’s centuries-long curse?_

_Brenna wanted to believe she was better than that, but the whispers persisted._

_Sten and Shale kept watch at the front of the group—most bandits thought twice about attacking a stone golem and a Qunari warrior. The others trailed behind, with Brenna, Leliana, and Ser Cullen Barksalot bringing up the rear. Leliana had been quiet since they encountered a group of assassins at the forest’s edge who had been sent by Marjolaine._

_“So...you mentioned you had a son? What happened to him?” Alistair asked._

_Brenna stumbled as the road seemed to fall out from under her, and Leliana caught her arm to steady her. She nodded in thanks to Leliana and gulped a calming breath. Brenna’s gaze snapped to Alistair—he had dropped back and walked beside Wynne._

_Wynne, ever the soul of patience, simply shrugged. “I honestly don't know, Alistair. He was taken from me. Such births are seldom, as there are ways to prevent it, but it does happen. And any child born to a circle mage belongs to the chantry.”_

_Morrigan turned, always ready to voice her disdain for the Circle of Magi, and Brenna shot her a glare and a sharp shake of her head. Morrigan scowled but remained silent._

_“I didn't know,” Alistair said. “I'm sorry.”_

_“It's all right.” Wynne amiably patted his shoulder, though the gesture seemed a bit off considering his muddy, bloodstained plate armor. “It was a long time ago. A very long time ago.”_

_“Couldn't you do something about it?”_

_“Do what? I was weak from the birthing process and there were...no, there was nothing I could do.”_

_Brenna swallowed hard as sorrow and dust constricted her throat._

_“Do you think about him?” Alistair asked._

_“All the time.”_

***

“The one thing I wanted but could never have.” Cole appeared at her side, and Brenna shot him a dry glance.

The spirit had caught her brooding as she sat in the shade of a supply wagon. The caravan had paused for a midday rest to water the horses and was readying to resume the march to Haven. They weren’t far now—two, maybe three days, and she shared the templars’ nerves.

After leaving the Crossroads she was certain that Leliana and Cullen knew that she traveled with her templar pups. She had no intention of accompanying them to Haven, but seeing the extent of the Inquisition’s influence at the Crossroads had given her new worries. The crown couldn’t afford to ignore the upstart organization—the Inquisition was expanding at an alarming rate. She could gain valuable information about their strength and numbers if she visited Haven...provided they didn’t arrest her like they had Varric.

“You worry that the Knight and the Nightingale won’t want to be with you and your Crow.”

“Well first I’m worried that they’ll arrest me thanks to that damn bounty, but aside from that…” She sighed and shook her head. “Things are different. Leliana didn’t mind before, but now she’s the Left Hand of the Divine. She might as well be married to the Maker. And Cullen...I don’t know.”

The safest course would be to return to Denerim, disappear back into cover personas and pretend that this never happened. Brenna accepted that pursuing the mage rebellion meant that there was no place in her life for Leliana and Cullen due to their ties to the chantry.

“How are our templars faring?” she asked.

“They’re afraid of the future. They only know how to be templars, and they are disordered without the Order—distracted, disillusioned, depressed.”

“Understood.” The pups would adjust, but it would take time. It helped that the templars at Sanctuary had a purpose—building a better Order that worked with mages as equals. The pups would need to find their new purpose within the Inquisition.

“Let me know if anything changes. I’m going to scout ahead.” She shifted and the crow took flight, and she cawed loudly so Ser Barris and Knight-Lieutenant Hayes would know her whereabouts.

The group had encountered the usual dangers of the road—bandits, bears, wolves, and the occasional demon that had wandered away from a rift. They avoided the rifts, for they had no way to close them, but the number of rifts they encountered was concerning. She had been cataloging their locations for Alistair and Anora, but the problem was clearly more widespread than she had estimated.

The crow soared over the treetops and kept a sharp eye out for trouble. The road ahead was blessedly clear and she was about to turn back when a woman’s scream caught her attention. She turned toward the sound and discovered a small battle to the side of the road. A woman crouched behind a group of rocks, and on the other side an armored figure stood against three red templars. Brave soul—he was outnumbered, and Brenna decided to increase his odds.

The crow dove behind the corrupted templars and she shifted back to her natural form. She buried both daggers into the spine of the largest beast—no simple feat considering the jagged spikes of red lyrium that jutted from its shoulders—and it crumpled to the ground. She stunned the others with a mind blast spell, and as they reeled from the magical blow their intended victim helped her drop the rest.

“Stay your hand,” she said. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Who are you?” He eyed her warily and held his sword at the ready. He had the bronze skin of an Antivan and he was young, perhaps the same age as many of her templar pups. His mismatched armor also seemed to be made of templar pieces. Either he had left the Order or he had scavenged the pieces from fallen knights.

“Brenna Amell.” She sheathed her daggers and folded her hands before nudging one of the bodies with her boot. “I encountered these creatures at Therinfal Redoubt. I’m surprised to find them so far from there.”

“Neran?” The woman called, her voice uncertain.

“Is that your lady?” Brenna asked.

“That is my wife, Ellisia.” Neran spoke with a Marcher’s accent, perhaps from Ostwick, and he straightened as though daring her to correct him. “The strange knights fell upon us while we traveled on the king’s road.”

“Go to her. I want to check these louts to see if they’re carrying any useful information.” She doubted that they would be so fortunate, considering that the papers she had taken from Therinfal had proved useless.

When she approached Neran and Ellisia she discovered two things—first, his wife was a mage, and second, she was very pregnant.

“Maker’s breath, when are you due?”

“Soon.” Ellisia smiled weakly as she placed a protective hand over her swollen belly. She was willowy and fine-boned, with olive skin and short-cropped dark hair. “We…” she paused and lowered her voice, “we are seeking Sanctuary. Do you know the way?”

“Yes, I do, though I wouldn’t mention that to my traveling companions. I can take you there after I see the pups to their new home.”

“Pups?” Neran asked.

“I rescued a small group of templars from Therinfal Redoubt and I’m leading them to join the Inquisition. We are much closer to Haven than we are to Sanctuary, so I’ll see them off first.” Escorting the couple to Sanctuary would ensure that she avoided accompanying the templars all the way to Haven and seeing Cullen and Leliana.

The pair exchanged a worried look. “We were in the same Circle of Magi in the Free Marches,” Neran said. “Will we be safe with them?”

“You’ll be safe with me. I serve the Fereldan crown, and that puts you under the protection of their majesties. They have sheltered several apostates at court. Here, let’s meet up with the caravan. We’ll get you on a wagon and off your feet.”

She whistled sharply when they reached the road and Ser Aveline Sharptooth and Knight-Lieutenant Hayes both came running ahead.

“What happened?” Ser Hayes asked.

“Red templars,” Brenna said. “They attacked this couple as they were traveling.”

“Here?” Her eyes widened and she cursed under her breath. “They couldn’t have come from Therinfal.”

“I know. We’ll need to keep our guard up, increase the watch.” Brenna motioned to the lead wagon as it rolled into view. “Our new friends are going to travel with us for now, so let’s make them comfortable.”

***

Brenna watched the couple from a distance as they sat beside the campfire. A few of the pups had taken to her new charges, and she wondered if those templars had had sweethearts in their circles. There were countless tragic love stories of mages and templars—something she knew about all too well.

She snorted and shook her head. Neran and Ellisia wouldn’t be the first mage and templar couple at Sanctuary, simply the most recent additions to her flock. They also wouldn’t be the first new parents—several mages had given birth since Sanctuary was founded.

“Dark lashes, eyes that would never open,” Cole said. “Still, silent, secret.”

Brenna flinched as Cole reopened that old wound and awakened the grief that came with it. The Fereldan circle had assumed that Cullen was the father of her child, though that was complete rubbish. Cullen had never laid a hand on her, which was one of the many reasons she adored him. She knew the child was Knight-Commander Greagoir’s because she had been his current “favorite” when she conceived. Not the first of his bastards, and probably not the last. He had been reassigned a year or so after the end of the Blight.

Brenna had nearly died in childbirth because Knight-Commander Greagoir refused to send for a midwife, and without a midwife’s aid the child was stillborn.

“I never should have told Anders what happened,” she said. “If he hadn’t known, he might not have destroyed half of Kirkwall to keep Hawke safe.”

“But he had to know.” Cole fidgeted beside her, his head bent and his face hidden by the wide brim of his oversized hat. “You had to tell him so someone else would remember the truth. Would know that there was a child you loved and lost.”

She nodded as her throat tightened and her eyes stung. She hadn’t realized how much she had wanted her son until he was gone.

“I could help you forget,” Cole offered. “To ease the hurt.”

“No. I need this hurt. I need to make sure that no mage suffers as I did. To build a new world where couples like Neran and Ellisia can raise their family in safety.”

“Sanctuary.”

“Precisely. They deserve to be happy.”

“So do you.”

Brenna opened her mouth to reply that she was happy, but then she paused. _Content_ might be more accurate—she was happy when she was with Zevran, but her tasks for Anora often kept her from him. After Kirkwall she had struck a bargain with Alistair and Anora: she would serve them as their agent, and in return they would grant a portion of Fereldan land to be used as sanctuary for her mages. She never regretted that decision, but some days…

Some days she wished for a quiet life. No intrigue, no assassinations, no battles, just time spent with her family.

Brenna shrugged. “I’m like you. I help other people find happiness. That’s what heroes do.”


	7. The Best Laid Plans...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite her plans to avoid Haven, an emergency leaves the Hero of Ferelden with no choice but to travel there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued CW for references to past birth trauma and child loss. (Don't worry, Neran and Ellisia are safe! They're in good hands.) Brenna also has a bit of an anxiety attack.

“Here.” Brenna withdrew the documents she had retrieved from Therinfal from her coat and handed them to Ser Barris. “Give these to Sister Nightingale. Maybe she’ll be able to make something out of them.”

“Are you certain you won’t come with us?” Ser Barris asked.

“It’s better if I don’t.” She peered past him at the path to Haven, now well-worn by the many pilgrims who had traveled there and then on to the Temple of Sacred Ashes beyond. It was a drastic change from the winding hike through the Frostback mountains during the Blight as she searched for the whereabouts of Brother Genitivi, though the most striking change was the Breach in the sky.

“You could help them.”

“I have a duty to their majesties, and that comes first.” Particularly because that duty was the price of Sanctuary’s continued safety. Ser Barris was an honorable man with a good heart—she would gladly have him as one of Sanctuary's knights, and she was sad to see him go.

“Maker watch over you.” She held her hand out to shake his but was interrupted when Knight-Lieutenant Hayes called out to her.

“Come quickly,” Hayes said. “It’s Ellisia.”

Fear spiked through her veins as she rushed to the last wagon where Ellisia had been resting until they parted ways with the templars. The young woman’s eyes were wide and her expression frantic.

“It’s nothing,” Ellisia said. “We can still leave.”

“What’s nothing?” Brenna asked.

“She’s had some labor pains,” Neran said.

“Not many.” Ellisia clutched Brenna’s arm as her voice jumped a panicked octave. “I’m sure they’ll stop. Please, we can still go. It’s nothing.”

Brenna looked to Neran and Knight-Lieutenant Hayes. “Give us a few minutes.”

Neran hesitated, but Brenna waved him on.

“Please, Lady Amell,” Ellisia said.

“I’m going to take you to Sanctuary,” Brenna assured her. “Nothing is going to change that. But I can’t take you now if your baby is already on the way. We’ll go to Haven—”

“But they’ll take him,” she blurted. “Or her. Children of circle mages belong to the chantry.”

The words hit Brenna like a punch to her gut, and she struggled to keep her expression neutral and her tone soothing.

“You aren’t a circle mage. You’re a mage under the protection of the king and queen of Ferelden, and Haven is part of Ferelden.” She took Ellisia’s hands in hers and squeezed them. “No one will take your child from you, I give you my word.”

Ellisia chewed her bottom lip as she hesitated. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ll kill anyone who tries. All right?” Brenna asked, and Ellisia nodded. “Good. Now, tell me how you’ve been feeling. A few pains? Close together or far apart?”

“More than a few. They’re closer together now.”

“Right, then. Wait here.”

Brenna breathed deep as she walked away, and then she nodded to Neran to rejoin his wife. 

She approached Knight-Lieutenant Hayes. “I need you to send a rider ahead to Haven. Tell them we have a woman in labor, and we’ll need a midwife and a place for her to give birth.” Brenna took another calming breath to stop her heart from racing. “We’ll take her in the lightest wagon, as quick as we can.”

Hayes nodded. “The wounded wagon. It can’t hurt to get them there sooner as well.”

“Agreed. Let’s go.”

***

“Where is she now?” Cullen asked Leliana.

When the templars arrived that afternoon Cullen focused on seeing them settled and receiving their reports on what happened at Therinfal Redoubt, and he had missed Brenna’s entrance into Haven. Now the hour had grown late and he hadn’t heard any news of her.

“In the chantry, acting as a midwife to a young couple she picked up on the journey here. A husband and wife who are also a templar and mage from a circle in the Free Marches. ” Leliana kept one hand on the edge of her desk but leaned away from it, as though she wanted to join Brenna but was anchored in place by her work.

“Midwife?”

She nodded. “The wife’s gone into labor, and we have no midwife here. Apparently Brenna has some experience with delivering babies. I’d like to hear the story behind that.”

“Maker’s breath.” The blood drained from his face.

“What’s wrong?” Leliana frowned, and Cullen realized she didn’t know. Brenna might not have spoken to anyone about the child she lost.

“It’s...complicated.” He handed her his report of what he had learned from the templars. “More red lyrium. It doesn’t bode well. You’ll want to speak with them further.”

“Of course. I received several documents from Knight Templar Barris. He said Brenna retrieved them from Therinfal.”

“Let me know if you learn anything new.”

Cullen took the opportunity to escape and headed into the chantry. He paused as the heavy door shut behind him and he spied the couple walking together up and down the length of the main aisle. Brenna stood with her back to a stone column and a chestnut mabari hound sat beside her.

Cullen met Brenna’s eyes, and the memory threatened to overwhelm him.

_The storm raged outside Kinloch Hold—rain lashed the tower’s walls and wind whistled through the chinks in the hold’s stone armor. Cullen watched as Brenna stumbled again during her lone march up and down the hallway. Her legs shook and her face was drawn with pain and exhaustion, but her labor seemed to refuse to progress. He couldn’t stand to see her hurting, and he hurried past the knights standing sentry in the hallway._

_“Here, let me help,” Cullen murmured as he slipped his arm around her shoulders. She had been delicate to begin with but now she was so small, almost skin and bones as her pregnancy advanced and stole her strength._

_“You’ll get in trouble,” she warned._

_“I don’t care.”_

_“I do. I don’t want you to suffer on my behalf.”_

_“I’d gladly take this suffering from you if I could.” He hated every moment of watching her health decline as her spirits diminished. Gone was the apprentice who enthusiastically studied chess strategies from books in the enchanter’s library, and in her place only a ghost remained, as though she had given up on life._

_Part of Cullen wanted to know who had done this to her so he could throttle the life from them, but he knew that it was better that he didn’t, for the answer might forever damage his faith in the Order._

_Brenna paused and looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Thank you.”_

Cullen crossed the chantry and stood at her side, and they watched the couple in silence. This had to be stressful for her—a reminder of one of her most difficult times in the circle, like a waking nightmare.

“Did you read Varric’s book?” Brenna asked.

Cullen barked a surprised laugh. “I did.”

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was taking notes.”

“Neither did I… Did you truly stand at the aft of the ship and stare tearfully toward the Gallows as you sailed away?” His lips twitched with a slight smile as she chuckled.

“Perhaps.”

“Walk with me. You could use the fresh air.”

“I can’t leave them.”

“They’re safe here.”

“Are they?” Brenna turned and cocked an eyebrow as she studied him. “Ellisia was terrified to come here because she thought the chantry was going to snatch her child from her arms.”

Cullen scowled. “No one is going to take her child. We’re not part of the chantry.”

“Really? Justinia’s Inquisition, run by her Right and Left Hands and a templar? I can’t imagine why people would think you’re part of the chantry.”

“Former templar,” he corrected. “They are safe here. You have my word.”

Brenna’s brow furrowed as she worried at her bottom lip.

“Do you trust me?” Cullen asked.

“Depends on which _you_ is asking. Do I trust my white knight? Absolutely. The commander of the Inquisition? I’m not certain.”

His breath caught at the nickname—Maker, he never thought he would hear that again—and he straightened. “They’re one and the same.”

“One of the lessons I’ve learned these past few years is how deeply our titles define us.” She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “Wait here. I’ll let them know I’ll be just outside.”

She approached the soon-to-be parents and spoke with them softly. They both turned and eyed him speculatively—apparently they had also read Varric’s book. The mabari stayed with the couple and Brenna fell in step beside Cullen.

At this hour most people were either huddled indoors or packed into the tavern, and only the patrols remained on duty. Once outside Brenna paused for a moment and peered at Leliana, but then she continued and walked around to the side of the chantry. She stopped near a group of barrels and leaned against the wall—close enough to the entrance to hear if someone called for her but out of sight of prying eyes.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers.” Brenna sighed and shook her head. “A whole village full of pilgrims and refugees and not one midwife.”

“How did you get midwife experience?”

“Bethany.” She managed a weary smile. “She and Nathaniel have twins, and are working on their third.” She scrubbed her face and then paled when she noticed that her hands were shaking. “Shit.”

Cullen took her hands and held them in his. “Are you all right?”

“No.” Brenna exhaled an unsteady breath. “I look at them, and I see us. I can’t let it end the same way.”

“It won’t. We may not have a midwife, but we have healers who can help if you need them.”

“I know, and I _know_ it’s not the same. Ellisia is doing very well. It won’t be long now, and I have faith that she and the baby will be fine. It’s just…” She trailed off and her composure crumbled as her body shook with a silent sob. Cullen pulled her close and held her, and she buried her face in his chest. _Maker._ They avoided speaking about Kinloch Hold—too many terrible memories for them both, old wounds that had never healed.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could have done more.”

“You were the only one who helped me. I adored you for that.” Brenna sighed. “I’m just exhausted. I’ve barely slept since Therinfal. I expected red templars to ambush us at every turn, and I didn’t want to lose any more pups.”

“Pups?”

“My templar pups. They’re all so _young_.” Brenna drew away and frowned. “Whatever are you wearing? It looks like you murdered a coyote.”

Cullen laughed. “Perhaps you can introduce me to your tailor.” He brushed his fingers over the snarling mabari on her left shoulder.

“She only works for the crown. You should give it a try.” Brenna smirked, and he shook his head.

“One thing at a time.”

They both turned as someone called for Lady Amell. “Speaking of one thing at a time, I have a baby to deliver.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

Brenna paused and studied him, and then she nodded. “Thank you.”


	8. Threat Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hero of Ferelden explores Haven and meets members of the Inquisition.

In the morning Brenna enjoyed a good full-body mabari stretch before shifting back to her natural form. She and Ser Aveline Sharptooth had guarded the new family, sleeping between the door and their charges. The lovebirds were awake, sharing a bit of breakfast in bed while their baby boy slept—the poor servant who delivered the food had nearly fainted with fright when she opened the door and encountered two grumpy mabari war hounds.

Brenna looked over mother and child before pronouncing them well. “I’m going to get the lay of the land. We’ll need to get you up and walking when I get back. The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner we can leave.”

“Are we truly safe here?” Neran asked.

“Yes, but it’s best we get you settled in your new home as soon as possible.” She squeezed his shoulder and then turned to Ser Aveline. “Up for some scouting?”

The mabari’s stubby tail wagged in approval, and the hound trailed her as they entered the chantry proper. The door to the room across from them was open and the woman seated behind the desk inside looked up as though she had been waiting for Brenna to emerge. She approached Brenna with a polite smile.

“Lady Amell, I am Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador for the Inquisition.”

Brenna’s eyes slid shut for a moment as she basked in the warmth of the ambassador’s accent. “Mmm, I do have a weakness for beautiful Antivans.” She bowed over Josephine’s offered hand and brushed a chaste kiss across her knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Montilyet.”

“And you, as well.” The ambassador blushed, a slight flush upon her bronze skin. “When you have time, I would welcome your insight into communicating with King Alistair and Queen Anora. Our correspondence thus far has been...strained.”

“Ah. That’s because Leliana has authored the Inquisitions’ letters.” Among other reasons, but Leliana had been a specific point of contention. “I understand the desire to invoke an old friendship, but there’s a bit of history between Leliana and Alistair that the queen does not appreciate. Matters will greatly improve if you author the correspondence instead.”

“I see.” Josephine blushed again. “Thank you, Lady Amell.”

“Please, call me Brenna.”

“Then you must call me Josephine.” She adjusted her tablet—it was a curious device that Brenna thought could be useful at the Fereldan court but worried that its candle would set the drapery aflame, or inquisitive mabari whiskers. “Would you like a tour of Haven?”

“Thank you, but I don’t wish to take up more of your time. I have been here before, though the village has been much transformed. The lack of dragon cultists is a definite improvement.”

Josephine smiled. “Of course. Please let me know if you require anything.”

“I require little, but any aid you can give the new parents is greatly appreciated. They’ve traveled a hard road.”

“Of course.”

Brenna stepped outside and was immediately reminded of how much she hated the Frostbacks as a gust of icy wind blasted her. Ser Aveline shivered and grumbled canine disapproval.

“Cole?” Brenna asked.

“Many people here know of you,” Cole said. Brenna turned and spotted him seated atop a barrel with his legs folded. “They say you helped, until you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t help as the Hero of Ferelden after Kirkwall, so I helped in other ways, with other faces.” She approached him and tried to gauge his expression beneath his wide-brimmed hat and behind his fringe of straw-colored bangs. “Are you faring well?”

“Yes. There are many here who hurt.”

“And that’s...good?”

“I help the hurt.”

Brenna nodded. She was still learning Cole’s quirks—he was very different from Justice. “How are our templars?”

“Disordered. Their roles are ruined, rings of rusted keys and none fit the lock.”

“Well I suppose we should go check on them.” She walked away and Cole vanished from sight, but she was fairly certain that he remained nearby.

Snow crunched beneath her boots as she walked Haven’s paths. She remembered more trees—the village had been surrounded by a dense forest that had been the cultists’ first line of defense in hiding from the outside world. The Chantry had probably cleared the trees for firewood when they occupied the village.

She surveyed her surroundings and gauged the Inquisition’s strength—she would fly over the area later to get a better idea of their numbers, but for now she noted patrols, buildings, defenses, and so on. She was grudgingly impressed by how quickly the Inquisition was growing despite their humble home—Haven was a village, not a fortress.

The outer gates were open and she stood in the archway and studied the troops, calculating their numbers and gauging the overall skill of the soldiers as they trained. The shouts of combat and the ring of clashing steel were familiar—almost like the sounds of home, but without the addition of spells zinging through the air.

Brenna closed her eyes for a moment and listened to conversations carried on the wind.

_Mother Giselle needs more bandages for the wounded… You, there! You have a shield, use it… Where’s my hammer? No, not that one… Mmm, I forgot she’s a redhead... Don’t even think about it, Chief... Already am, Krem._

Past the encampment the frozen lake stretched toward the horizon, and Brenna thought of the strange boy they had met there when they first arrived in Haven. His singsong rhyme had haunted her dreams for days when they hurried back to Redcliffe to cure Arl Eamon.

_Come, come, bonny Lynne; tell us, tell us where you've been._

_Were you up, were you down,_

_Chasing rabbits ’round the town?_

It felt like a lifetime ago—the mad dash to build an army as they rushed from one crisis to the next. Now it seemed like a dream, or a nightmare, depending on the particular memory. A tale starring a different Brenna.

She shivered and squared her shoulders. “Which way, Cole?”

“Here.”

She followed him around the edge of the training grounds and to an area where the tents looked recently raised.

“Ser Barris,” she greeted. “How are the men faring?”

“As well as can be expected.” He grimaced—his face was lined with exhaustion. No one had slept well during the march from Therinfal. “They’re worried about the fate of the rest of the Order. We hoped to find some of them here, but there are only a few.”

She turned and glanced at Cullen—he studiously avoided looking in her direction. “You’re in good hands. I trust Commander Cullen.”

Barris nodded. “I had hoped to join the Inquisition in sealing the Breach, but not like this.”

“I know.” They both frowned at the eerie glowing wound in the sky. It looked worrisome from the safety of the other side of Ferelden, but it was much more terrifying this close.

“How are Ellisia and Neran?” he asked.

“Exhausted, but well. They have a healthy baby boy.”

“I suppose they won’t be naming him after you, then.” Ser Barris smiled, and she laughed.

“Perhaps not. Delrin is a nice name.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I appreciate the thought.”

“I’ll leave you to your duties. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Of course, Lady Amell.”

She greeted a few more of her pups and then turned back toward the village. The small stable only held a few horses—she had heard that Horsemaster Dennet agreed to provide the Inquisition with mounts. Perhaps he was waiting for them to build proper facilities before sending his horses.

Brenna was watching the activity in the forge when a man hesitantly approached her.

“Warden Commander?”

She turned to the speaker—he had a soldier’s build and wore the padding for heavy armor but not the plate. Sensible. An attack on Haven wasn’t imminent, and she wouldn’t want to clank around in full plate armor if it wasn’t necessary. The man’s thick beard and mustache rivaled even Ser Thrask’s well-manicured facial hair.

“I’m Warden-Constable Blackwall.”

Her brow rose and then she grinned. “Blackwall? Maker’s breath! It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. You were one of my best recruiters.” Constable Blackwall had sent her several excellent recruits, and thankfully most of them survived the Joining. She tried to coax Blackwall into visiting Vigil’s Keep so she could meet him in person, but the timing never worked out.

Brenna extended her hand to shake his. “Are you recruiting for the Inquisition now?”

“In a manner of speaking. Do you know anything about wardens disappearing?”

“Disappearing?” _Maker’s breath_. Warden matters might not be her concern anymore, but she tried to check in with Stroud from time to time. She hadn’t heard from him in months. “No, though I’m not in contact with Weisshaupt. They stripped me of my command when they declared me a deserter.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. I didn’t want the wardens to be blamed for my actions at the Gallows. That responsibility was all mine. Plus, my blood no longer carries the blight, so I’m no longer a grey warden.”

His eyes widened. “How is that possible?”

“Magic. Not mine. It’s a long story.”

Blackwall nodded slowly. “That explains why…”

“Why you couldn’t sense me?” she explained, and he nodded again. “Alistair hates it because now I can sneak up on him. The king’s guard has nearly shot me on more than one occasion.”

“King Alistair?” His eyes widened and he chuckled. “Are you joining the Inquisition?”

“I need to discuss that with their majesties first since I’m oath-bound to them. If you’ll excuse me, I want to check in on the wounded from Therinfal.”

“Of course, Comm—” Blackwall frowned, unsure of her proper title.

“You may call me Brenna. I feel as though we already know each other. I’d like to talk more later, if you have time.”

He nodded, and she thought he might have even blushed, though it was hard to tell with his beard concealing his face. Must be a Marcher—Orlesians were obsessed with their masks and Marchers were vain about their hair. Fereldans were concerned with more practical matters like hounds and horses.

Cole led her to the infirmary, and Brenna promptly found herself aiding not only her templar pups but the Inquisition’s wounded as well. Several chantry sisters tended the wounded, and though Brenna was impressed by their skill, bandages couldn’t compare to healing spells. She fell into a rhythm with Cole—he would point out a patient in need of help, and she would puzzle out the spirit’s diagnosis to deliver the cure.

It was past noon by the time she emerged from the infirmary, and her growling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since...yesterday? 

“You should meet Solas,” Cole announced.

“Is Solas a cook? Because I’m starving.”

“Solas is a mage. He likes spirits.”

Brenna paused—she had seen a few mages here and there, still dressed in their Circle robes as though it never occurred to them to attempt to blend in. It probably hadn’t—the Circle was designed to keep mages dependent on the chantry.

“He spoke to you?” she asked Cole.

“Yes. Most people forget that they saw me, or they don’t notice me. I spoke to Solas. He’s nice.”

“All right, lead on.”

The fact that this Solas had spoken to Cole and hadn’t tried to bind him was a point in the mage’s favor. Brenna worried for the spirit’s safety, but her brow furrowed at her first sight of Solas—the last bald elven mage she had met was Zathrian, the Dalish keeper who had cursed the werewolves in the Brecilian forest due to his bitter, unending need for vengeance. The memory did not invoke warm feelings. But Solas lacked vallaslin, so perhaps he was a city elf.

“This is Brenna, except when she isn’t,” Cole said. “She likes spirits, too.”

“You must be Solas.”

“I am, and you are the Hero of Ferelden.” His accent sounded Dalish, though not as thick as Merrill’s. Brenna often had to tell Merrill to speak slowly, especially if the mage was excited.

“Except when I’m not,” she replied dryly. “You’re with the Inquisition?”

“I am.” He tilted his head as he studied her. “I’ve never heard of a circle mage who knew anything of spirits. Most would call Cole a demon, yet as I understand it you stood with Cole against Envy.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “I’ve led an interesting life.”

“Once you understand the field and the players, the right strategy can solve any problem.” Cole recited her father’s words, and she nodded as she finished the advice.

“All you have to do is find it.” Brenna smiled at Cole, but then she cocked an eyebrow at Solas. “Will Cole be safe here? I worry that some idiot enchanter will try to bind him.”

“Not that the templars will attack him?” Solas asked.

“I like the templars.” Cole scuffed the toe of his boot in the frozen dirt. “The ones who have purpose, not the ones who draw pleasure from causing mages pain.”

“I know, dear.” Brenna resisted the urge to reach out and pat his shoulder—aside from combat, she had yet to see Cole touch anyone, and she suspected that he might not find comfort in the gesture. “He’s been traveling with them for some time without problem. I’m more concerned about Fiona’s mages. They can be...problematic.”

“Hmm. Agreed.” Solas folded his hands. “I will look out for Cole. Perhaps we could discuss the matter more before you leave.”

“I'd like that, thank you.”

“You should bring her lunch,” Cole said. “She’s hungry, too.”

Her brow furrowed at the non sequitur—ah, Leliana. “Good plan. Thank you, Cole. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me.”

She located the kitchens and procured a meaty soup bone for her mabari, two bowls of stew and a small boule of bread.

Brenna entered Leliana’s tent and handed her a bowl. “Hello, beautiful. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you. It’s not Fereldan turnip stew, is it?” Leliana teased. Alistair had nearly poisoned the entire party by insisting on preparing the Fereldan dish.

“I would never do that to you.”

Leliana nodded toward a long, low wooden crate and they sat side by side. Brenna tore the bread in two and offered her half, and they ate in companionable quiet as Ser Aveline Sharptooth gnawed on her bone. For a moment it felt as though they were back at camp during the Blight—all it needed was for Alistair and Morrigan to bicker while Sten looked on in bewilderment and Wynne tutted her disapproval.

“I’m sorry about Justinia,” Brenna said gently. “I know she meant a lot to you, and you haven’t had time to properly mourn her.”

Leliana nodded, her expression pained. “Thank you. Have you heard anything about who might have killed her?”

“No. Nothing solid, just the standard rumors. The templars blame the mages, and the mages blame the templars. I don’t think either side has anywhere near the power to rip a whole in the world. This is something new. It could be this Elder One the Envy demon spoke of.”

“Perhaps. My agents will investigate it. You’ve been working with the crown all this time?”

“You know I can’t answer that. I currently serve at the privilege of their majesties, and they sent me to Therinfal Redoubt.”

“Can you give us a full report on what happened there?”

“Yes. I hope you’ll be able to learn more about what happened to the rest of the Order.” Her voice lowered as she pictured the red lyrium corrupted creatures—no sense in their eyes, only a mad, viscous hunger. “It’s bad. I haven’t seen violence like that since the Blight, and I’ve never seen anything like these red templars. If the bulk of the Order has been corrupted…”

“Let’s hope that isn’t the case. Will you join the Inquisition?” Leliana asked. “We could use your aid.”

“Why? You have the Herald of Andraste.”

“And we are grateful for that,” she said. “But the Herald has no political or combat experience. He’s...shy. Sweet. And this is a situation that does not call for sweetness.”

“Are you saying I’m sour? I’m offended.” Brenna sniffed in mock indignation.

Leliana cocked one ginger eyebrow. “Do you want me to comment on your taste?”

“Maybe later,” Brenna teased. “The Herald will learn. I did. When Duncan recruited me I’d forgotten almost everything I knew about living outside of the circle.”

“Trevelyan has a better grasp of that. His circle was far more sedate than Kinloch Hold. Less restrictive. But he could use a mentor.”

Brenna nodded—that was in line with what they knew about the Ostwick circle. It had been low on their list of circles to liberate because there had been few complaints attached to it. By the time they had gotten around to planning their attack the circle had already peacefully dissolved.

“You may not want my help, it comes with terms.”

“Terms?” Leliana quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, nothing inspires confidence in an institution like having it put a price on your head. How much am I worth now?” Brenna asked. “Last I checked it was ten thousand gold. Though I did appreciate that the Chantry preferred me alive.” She tapped her chin with a thoughtful expression. “Since I came here on my own does that mean I get the money?”

“Are you surrendering?” Leliana asked.

“That depends. Are you going to tie me up and manhandle me?” Brenna countered.

Leliana laughed. “How is Zevran?”

“Quite well.” Brenna grinned. “We’ve missed you. I’ve missed you.”

“I suspected he was with you. He disappeared the same time you did.”

“I didn’t want to lose anyone else after what happened at the Gallows. Zevran was at Vigil’s Keep when I returned, and I asked him to stay with me. He did.”

It seemed like a miracle at the time. Brenna rushed to the Vigil to begin the mages’ exodus to Sanctuary, and there was Zevran, waiting to provide news of his search for her father and brother. She vowed then and there to stop pushing away the people she loved, and she asked him to come with her.

“ _Of course, querida. You are the one thing in Thedas I love more than my homeland. I was merely waiting for you to ask.”_

Zevran was her rock—the one certain thing in her life in those hectic times. He still was.

Leliana looked away and was silent for several moments. “What are your terms?”

“Let’s not put the cart before the horse. In a few days I’ll see my lovebirds to safety, and I’ll discuss the matter with the king and queen. They might agree to lend me to the Inquisition as an advisor, something along those lines.”

“Ambassador, perhaps.”

Brenna wrinkled her nose. “Too much politicking. You’ll need someone who can teach combat skills to your new mages. Fiona’s people are mostly scholars.”

“If we agree to your mysterious terms.”

“Just be glad Zevran isn’t here. He’d argue for a few salacious conditions from you and Cullen.” Brenna waggled her eyebrows and Leliana laughed. She rose and held out her hand for Leliana’s empty bowl. “I’ll return these, and then I need to check in with the new parents. When would you like my report?”

“In an hour, I think. I’ll let Cullen and Josephine know.”

“All right.”

***

Brenna leaned over the map in the war room and memorized as much as she could—the breadth of their operations was alarming, spread throughout the entire kingdom. “Someone’s been busy.”

“We have been fortunate in our endeavors,” Josephine said.

“I am curious about the purpose behind some of those endeavors. I was very unamused by being stopped on the king’s road by Inquisition soldiers.”

Josephine smiled politely. “We sought to protect the people by quelling the violence caused by the mages and templars, and to close the rifts in the fade.”

“And I appreciate your desire to help, but the Inquisition’s success has created new problems for Ferelden. You are undermining our authority by raising an army on our land and occupying our villages.”

“ _Our_ land?” Cullen’s brow rose.

“Yes.” Brenna straightened—she might have been born a Marcher, but the last few years had confirmed that her heart belonged to Ferelden. “I didn’t save Ferelden from the Blight just to let Orlais reclaim it.”

“Is that what you see here?” Leliana asked.

“You don’t?” She scowled. “Ferelden is still recovering from the effects of the Blight, and this has left us vulnerable.” Brenna turned her displeasure on Leliana. “Grand Duke Gaspard is fueling his rebellion with the promise that when he is Emperor he will retake Ferelden, and the Inquisition’s occupation only strengthens his claims.”

“We are not allied with either side of Orlais’ civil war,” Leliana said.

“Yet. The chantry was wounded when the divine was murdered, but it will recover, and when it does it will look to claim Justinia’s Inquisition. That will put two armies at Orlais’ command. It wouldn’t take much for Gaspard to convince the new divine of the necessity of an exalted march against Ferelden.”

“That’s rather a pessimistic view,” Cullen said.

Brenna shrugged. “Someone taught me how to think like a bard. Funny, she looked a lot like you.” She glanced at Leliana, who smiled dryly in response.

“I understand your point,” Leliana said. “It would be useful to have an advisor from Ferelden to point out possibilities like those as we move forward.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” It was inevitable—Ferelden needed to ally with the Inquisition to regain the confidence of its people and defend against the possibility of an Orlesian invasion. Brenna would be the most likely candidate to maintain that alliance, and it would give her insight into the Inquisition’s stance on mage’s rights.

Brenna straightened and folded her hands. “Now, about Therinfal Redoubt.”

She launched into her tale, starting with her arrival at the fortress and continuing to her encounter with Knight-Captain Denam, which had revealed her true identity and his red lyrium infection.

“You can really change your form into that of another person?” Cullen asked.

“Yes. Not a specific person—I can’t become Anora or Leliana. I can only change my features to create someone new. The pups kept dispelling me during our journey to ensure that I was truly myself. It was really quite annoying.”

“That’s remarkable,” Josephine said.

“It explains how you were able to disappear so completely, if you were not yourself,” Leliana said.

“It would, wouldn’t it? Moving on…” Brenna described her battle with the Envy demon as it tried to become her, and the information it had revealed as it stretched beyond its limits. She left out Cole’s involvement for now, because she wasn’t certain if he wanted his presence to be revealed to the Inquisition yet. That was something she could discuss with Cole and Solas.

The battle against the red templars, the final fight against Envy—it all felt somewhat surreal, like a blurry nightmare that had spurred their flight across the kingdom.

“Demons, red lyrium, corruption in the Order.” Cullen shook his head, his lips pressed into a disapproving line.

“I saved as many as I could,” Brenna said softly.

“I know. Thank you.”

Josephine frowned. “It does seem odd for a rebel mage to rescue templars.”

“I prefer the term ‘dangerous apostate,’ if you please.” Brenna smirked. “But just as the Inquisition seeks to protect the people, so do I. Now, if you have no other questions, I was thinking of indulging in a drink and a game of chess.”

Cullen coughed and blushed, but before he could comment Leliana smiled. “Absolutely,” she said.

Brenna tsked. “Too slow, Commander. No Orlesian wine, though.” She pointed a scolding finger at Leliana. “Orlesian wine always tastes depressing.”

“Are you commenting on my taste?”

Brenna smirked, and Cullen made a choking noise as though he swallowed a bug. Brenna linked her arm through Leliana’s. “Maybe later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Blackwall's background so that he completed the Joining before the real Blackwall died and he assumed his identity. It bugged me that he was surrounded by wardens and no one commented on the fact that he wasn't blighty.
> 
> Whew, this was a long chapter! I want to thank everyone who has left comments and kudos on this and the first part. Writing this fic has been my selfcare throughout 2020, and I'm looking forward to 2021. :-)


	11. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald of Andraste returns to Haven and meets his cousin Brenna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a POV switch to Vanya Trevelyan, the shy and socially awkward Herald of Andraste who is suffering from a debilitating crush on Dorian Pavus. I'll be switching back and forth depending on who is in the most trouble at the moment. ;)

Seeker Pentaghast was annoyed with him. Not that this was new—the seeker had been varying degrees of frustrated with Vanya since he fell out of the Fade. He was convinced that her face must have frozen into a scowl after the conclave was destroyed.

The seeker’s most recent ire was caused by Vanya’s performance at Redcliffe. His shoulders slumped as they walked through Haven’s main gates as he braced himself for the lecture that was sure to come from the council. He offered the mages an alliance with the Inquisition—of course he had, he was a mage. He wasn’t very well going to enslave his people just to make the Inquisition happy, and he had only moments to make a decision. The king and queen of Ferelden had marched into the castle to chastise them, and he’d just reappeared after his adventure through time, where he had encountered a world nearly consumed by red lyrium and watched a demon army kill his companions. Varric, Seeker Pentaghast, First Enchanter Vivienne, and finally Leliana, murdered before his very eyes as he was helpless to save him. He’d barely slept since then, and—

“ _Varric Tethras!_ ”

Vanya stopped short and Dorian bumped into him. He clapped Vanya on the shoulder in apology and Vanya blushed, though the reaction was covered by his raw, wind-chapped face.

A woman in a crimson armored coat blocked their path to the chantry, and a massive mabari war hound stood beside her. She glared daggers at Varric. “You have caused my family great distress.”

“Kingmaker.” Varric slowly approached her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She scowled and pointed an accusing finger at him. “We had a perfectly good rescue mission planned, and then I arrive here to learn that you’re cooperating with your captors. All that work, wasted. It even had a dragon!”

“Just one dragon?” Varric asked.

She tilted her head and scratched her chin. “Three would be better, wouldn’t it?”

Varric grinned. “I’ll add some werewolves for balance.”

“Maker’s breath, no. No werewolves. If I never see another werewolf it will be too soon.” She smiled as she closed the distance and hugged him. “I’m glad you’re all right. You scared my cousins shitless when we heard about the Breach.”

“Them? What about me?” Varric stepped back. “Giant explosion, demons raining from the sky. I was scared shitless myself.”

Vanya finally found his voice when the tension vanished. “Varric? Who’s your friend?”

Varric looked to the woman who nodded her permission, and he grinned. “Herald of Andraste, meet Lady Brenna Amell, the Hero of Ferelden.”

She smiled. “Well met. You must be my cousin Ivan.”

“Vanya,” he replied automatically. “No one calls me Ivan unless I’m in trouble.” Which, unfortunately, had been near constant since the Conclave. “We’re cousins?”

“All the noble families in the Marches have married at least once, but yes, Bethany found a few connections between the Amells and the Trevelyans.” She turned to Varric. “You should have heard the sound she made when she discovered the connection. It was like someone squeezed a nug.”

“Bethany?” Vanya asked.

“Bethany Hawke,” Varric said. “She’s the Champion’s sister. Which would also make her your cousin.”

“Welcome to the family,” Lady Amell said. She was petite for someone who had slain an Archdemon—the armor added bulk, but she looked nearly a foot shorter than Vanya. Then again, most people seemed short to Vanya, whose lanky height put him head and shoulders above a crowd. He hated it. The extra unwanted attention had been difficult to deal with before Vanya had been named the Herald of Andraste, and now all eyes were on him all the time.

Seeker Pentaghast finally found her voice and she stepped forward. “Lady Amell, I’m—”

“I know who you are, Seeker.” Her expression hardened, and Vanya nearly stepped back to ensure he was out of the line of fire. “We have met before.”

“We have?” She frowned in confusion.

Lady Amell folded her hands. “Yes, you’ve tried to kill me on no less than three occasions. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I’m sure all apostates must look alike to you.”

Vanya’s eyes widened—he’d never seen anyone other than Varric stand up to the seeker. She terrified Vanya. He had nightmares of being shackled and helpless with the seeker ready to execute him on the spot for his accused crimes.

“That can’t be.” Seeker Pentaghast shook her head, and Lady Amell continued.

“As I was recently reminded, when one is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. And you were Justinia’s hammer, weren’t you?” Lady Amell turned to Varric. “Drinks? First round is on me.”

“Maker, yes,” Varric replied.

“I could use a drink,” Dorian said. “Particularly if it’s somewhere warm.”

Vanya opened his mouth to protest but couldn’t find the words. He wanted Dorian’s help in the council meeting. Well, to be honest, he wanted to keep Dorian close for the pleasure of listening to his charming bravado and quick wit, and enjoying his dazzling smile. Maker, Dorian Pavus was the most beautiful man Vanya had ever laid eyes on.

“Oh,” was all Vanya managed to say.

“Come on, Sparkler,” Varric said. “You’ll get along just fine with the Kingmaker.”

The trio headed to the tavern without another word, and Vanya tried not to cringe as the seeker scowled.

“Let’s go,” she ordered. He didn’t dare argue.

***

_“Why do you want me to do these things if you don’t trust my decisions?”_

Vanya should have said that. Of course he hadn’t, and now hours later the unspoken words itched beneath his skin as he pushed the dregs of his dinner around the bottom of the stew bowl. He expected that Commander Cullen would be angry about his decision—Cullen didn’t want Vanya to approach the mages in the first place. Seeker Pentaghast’s mood had not improved after being brushed aside by Lady Amell, and she was snappish and sour throughout the meeting. 

Vanya retreated to his quarters the moment the meeting was adjourned. _Research_ , he had mumbled when Josephine asked where he was headed. She was kind to him—the ambassador seemed to recognize Vanya’s discomfort and she attempted to adjust their interaction accordingly.

The small house was his refuge from prying eyes. He felt guilty for having so much room to himself when space was at a premium in Haven, but the guilt was assuaged by his need to escape. At the Circle he had several places where he could disappear with his work, but there was no hiding in Haven.

 _Cousins_. Lady Amell was right—the noble families in the Free Marches were interconnected, some to alarming degrees. Genealogy was a required subject of study for noble children in order to teach them their place in polite society, but it had never interested him. He didn’t know if she was correct that they were related, but the idea of that connection was a lifeline that he couldn’t ignore.

His resolve set, he put the bowl aside and asked Dela, the elven runner who kept an eye on him, to ask Lady Amell to join him. 

He rose when she entered and tried not to slouch. “Thank you for joining me, Lady Amell.”

“Brenna, please. Something on your mind, cousin?”

“Yes. Please sit.” He cleared the room’s single chair of the books stacked upon it, and then he sat at the foot of his bed. Varric found it amusing that he would pass over coins and jewels to pick up an old, moldy book. He placed Varric in charge of valuables and stuck to collecting things that interested him—books, scrolls, and other scraps of writing.

She didn’t look like a mage, or at least not any sort of mage he had met before. Her hands were calloused from wielding weapons—his own hands were still adjusting to using a staff in combat, the blisters had been terrible at first. A fine scar bisected her left eyebrow and continued down her cheek.

“Leliana said you were leaving. Please don’t leave,” he blurted. “I need your help.”

“I know it feels overwhelming at first, but—”

“Please don’t say I’ll get used to it,” he interrupted. “This is something I can’t fix.” He stopped and shook his head. “Or change. Fix implies broken. I’m not broken.” Vanya grimaced as he sought the right words to explain, and then he sighed and held his head in his hands.

“Hmm. I’m going to ask a friend to join us. I think he can help. I’ll be right back.”

She left, and her mabari hound crossed to Vanya and laid its head on his knee. He gently stroked the hound’s dark red fur—he had always liked his family’s hunting dogs. Dogs were honest, forthright—there was no mystery in whether or not a dog liked a person.

When she returned a young man in ragged clothing followed Brenna. He wore a hat with a brim so wide it almost didn’t fit through the door.

“This is Cole,” she introduced before returning to her chair. “Cole, this is my cousin Vanya, the Herald of Andraste. He needs our help.”

“Scrunched down in the seat, small, silent. If I find a quiet spot to study, will they leave me alone?” Head bowed, Cole picked at the cuff of his sleeve. Vanya was familiar with the gesture—instead of a hat, he hid behind the spill of his long hair, a mouse-brown curtain that shielded him from making eye contact.

Vanya’s jaw dropped. “How…?”

“Cole is a spirit of Compassion. A spirit, not a demon,” Brenna said sternly. “There is a difference and it is important.”

“Solas says that, too.” Vanya peered at Cole, curious. “I would like to learn more, but there aren’t books to study. His experience is gained through his time spent in the Fade.”

“You like to study,” Cole said. “To resolve riddles. Why one spell works but another spell doesn’t.”

“Yes.” Vanya nodded as the tension in his chest eased. “I’m good at research. At developing new spells, or rediscovering old ones. I love magical theory. There’s an order to it. A certainty. The right words in the proper order yield the same results. But people…” He trailed off and chewed his bottom lip. “You can say ‘good morning’ to ten people and get ten different responses, and I don’t understand why. I never have.”

“They watch you now,” Cole said. “The Herald of Andraste. They want words to ease the fear, but it’s hard to know the right ones.”

“Do you play chess?” Brenna asked Vanya.

“No. It needs two people.”

“I’ll teach you. It helped me navigate life outside of the Circle.”

“So you’re staying?” Vanya asked.

“It’s more accurate to say that I’m leaving but returning. I need to report to Denerim, but it’s almost certain that their majesties will order me to work with the Inquisition.” She smiled at him. “It will be all right. Cole will be here if you need someone to talk to.”

“I help the hurt. She wants to stay with you.” Cole pointed to the war hound. “Her person was killed by a red monster. She thinks you need her.”

Vanya continued to stroke the hound’s fur. “What’s her name?”

“Good Girl,” Cole said.

Brenna chuckled. “That’s not a name, dear. I don’t know what her name was before so I chose a temporary one. You’ll have to choose one for her. It’s a great honor to have a mabari bond with you.”

“I’ll think of something appropriate. We’ll keep Good Girl for now.”

“Do you have anything else you’d like to discuss?”

“Yes,” Vanya said.

“Yes,” Cole echoed.

“Several things,” Vanya amended. “But first, can you help Felix?”

***

Felix and Dorian arrived just before noon the next day, anxious to attempt Brenna’s cure. Felix looked much the same as he had when Vanya had met him in the inn in Redcliffe—perhaps he was a bit paler, and the circles under his eyes a shade darker.

“Dorian, stop fussing.” Felix tried to wave the mage away, and Dorian huffed as he folded his arms.

“I am not fussing. I am simply expressing my concern for your wellbeing.”

“That sounds like fussing to me,” Brenna said as she entered. Blackwall followed and shut the door.

They had chosen Vanya’s quarters, as he had the most room and privacy. He suspected that there hadn’t been this many people in his bedroom since he had fallen out of the Fade and the mark was trying to kill him while he was unconscious. Felix occupied the room’s only chair while the others tried not to hover around him.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed as he frowned at Blackwall. “Felix doesn’t wish to join the Grey Wardens.”

“Good, because we’re not here to recruit him.” Brenna set the wooden bucket she carried on the floor next to Felix’s chair. “The Joining is not a cure. It’s just as likely to kill you.”

“That’s cheerful. Felix Alexius.” He held his hand out to Brenna, who shook it.

“Brenna Amell, and this is Warden-Constable Blackwall.” She turned to Blackwall. “You can sense him?”

“Yes.”

“Good, that’s useful.”

“Sense him?” Dorian asked.

“The Blight allows wardens to sense darkspawn,” Brenna said. “And for the spawn to sense the wardens. Blackwall will be able to sense if I’ve successfully removed the Blight from your blood.”

“You’ve done this before?” Felix asked.

“I’ve tried it before, unsuccessfully. I wasn’t able to remove all of the Blight. I wasn’t strong enough then, but I think this will work now.”

“Why? You’re stronger now?” Vanya asked.

“After a fashion, yes.” She turned to Dorian. “As I understand it, you couldn’t get the time magic to work before. It was simply theoretical. And then when it did work, it would only allow travel as far back as the formation of the Breach, correct?”

“Yes,” Dorian said.

“I think the time travel spell worked because the Breach and the rifts aren’t just spitting out demons, they’re increasing magic. Or mages’ access to magic. You’re welcome to research that, cousin.”

Vanya nodded slowly as his thoughts began to buzz with possibilities.

“Hence, this should work if you’re willing to try,” Brenna said.

“I’m game if you are.” Felix grinned, though the expression seemed weary. “You’re no longer a warden. How did it work on you before the Breach?”

“The person who cast the spell was strong enough to do it. She’s...unique.” Brenna turned to Vanya. “Cousin, if you’ll lend us the use of your bed?”

“Of course.”

Felix chuckled as he moved. “I usually require at least drinks before a lady gets me into bed.”

“That’s all right, I usually prefer blondes.” Brenna shucked her coat and draped it over the back of the empty chair, and then she slid the empty bucket across the floor. “Gentlemen, if you’ll give us some room, please?”

Vanya, Dorian, and Blackwall stepped back as ordered.

“This will hurt,” she warned. “The Blight doesn't give up easily.”

“Neither do I,” Felix said.

“That’s the spirit.”

Brenna held her hands above Felix, her fingers splayed wide, and a white glow formed. Dispelling magic, Vanya thought—a variation on the spell meant to remove damaging magical effects.

She centered her hands over his chest, and Felix jerked as a thin line of smoky black energy spiraled up into her right hand. It collected there in a swirling sphere, and then she stretched her left hand and positioned it over the empty bucket. The energy followed and flowed into the bucket, where it fell with a liquid splat.

Her right hand began a slow circuit over his body, and Felix grimaced as more Blight was removed. He twitched and made a strangled sound of pain, and Dorian stepped forward.

“Stay back,” Brenna warned.

Dorian grasped Vanya’s hand and held it tight. Vanya understood this reaction—Dorian was afraid for his friend, and he needed support. Vanya squeezed his hand and prayed for Felix’s health.

Vanya wasn’t certain how long the process took—it felt like hours as they watched, helpless to ease Felix’s agony. Finally the flow of sickly energy slowed to a trickle, and then only a few drops remained.

“Blackwall, is he clear?” Brenna asked.

The warden approached. “Yes.”

“Oh, good.” The spell’s glow vanished, and Brenna stepped back. Her knees buckled and she started to fall, but Blackwall caught her and helped her to the chair. Blood streamed from her nose, and Vanya grabbed a handkerchief and pressed it to her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I need a drink,” she said. “Don’t kick that over, please. No one wants to scrub concentrated Blight from the floorboards.”

“Felix? Say something,” Dorian ordered.

“Let’s not do that again.” Felix’s voice was raw and ragged, but Dorian grinned.

“Well, as long as we can keep you away from more darkspawn, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

***

“Come with me, please,” Brenna said to Leliana.

Leliana frowned at the bucket Brenna carried. “What is that?”

“Leverage.”

Brenna turned and headed toward the chantry, and Leliana followed. The contents of the bucket sloshed as she strode through the chantry and down the stairs to the dungeon.

Magister Alexius was being held in the cell Brother Genetivi had once occupied. The comfortable accommodations hardly deserved to be called a cell—the desk was nicer than the one Brenna had at home. The magister was seated at said desk when Brenna stopped at the barred cell door.

“Should I unlock it?” Leliana asked.

“No. Not for this.” Brenna set the bucket down. “Magister Alexius? I’m Brenna Amell.”

“The Hero of Ferelden. Your reputation proceeds you.” Alexius rose and approached the bars. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Brenna tapped the bucket with the side of her boot. “This is the Blight I just removed from your son.”

“Felix?” His eyes widened. “You cured him?”

“I did. He’s resting now, but I imagine he’ll be by to tell you all about it tomorrow.”

“Thank you, I…”

“Oh, I expect more than a thank you, Magister. I assume you’ve met Sister Nightingale?” She nodded toward Leliana.

“I have.”

“You’re going to tell her everything you know. Every name, location, date, even the smallest detail. Because if you don’t.” Brenna leaned in and lowered her voice. “I’ll put this Blight back where I found it.”


	12. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hero of Ferelden visits Sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Finally some sex! This chapter contains an Amell/Zevran love scene with explicit language.

“This will do.” Hands on her hips, Brenna surveyed the spot. Just the right amount of room for takeoff.

“What will do?” Neran asked.

“You’ll see.”

When she was certain that the young family was strong enough to travel, Brenna led Ellisia and Neran away from Haven—just far enough to hide their departure from most prying eyes. She had no doubt that Leliana’s people watched them, but that was to be expected. A few spectators were preferable to the entirety of Haven. She had also asked Blackwall to accompany them to see them off.

“I thought, as a warden, you’d appreciate this,” she had explained. Blackwall had been somewhat confused by the request, but he followed anyway.

Brenna smiled at Ellisia. “Now, your instinct will be to hold your baby tight, but you must keep your head. You want to protect him, not smother him.”

Ellisia nodded, though her brow furrowed in confusion. Brenna addressed both parents. “You’ll be secure in the saddle. All you have to do is hold on and enjoy the view. We’ll stop at midday to rest and eat.”

Brenna stepped away until she had the proper amount of space, and then she shifted into a griffon. She was particularly proud of this form—recreating an extinct creature had been challenging, but her time as a grey warden had given her access to plenty of source material.

“Maker’s breath.” Blackwall’s jaw dropped as she extended her wings. She shook and rustled her feathers, and then stretched her lean lioness legs and thrashed her tail.

Blackwall approached her hesitantly and she squawked at him, looking from him to the couple.

“Right,” he said. “Here, let’s get you two in the saddle.”

Brenna folded her wings and knelt to give them better access. It was a complex device intended to keep a warden safe during aerial combat, and she had suspected that if Blackwall had studied warden history he would have an idea of how it worked.

Once her passengers were secure she rose. Blackwall gently patted her neck. “Thank you.”

She butted his shoulder with her beak in reply, and he chuckled. He backed away to give her room, and with a few bounds she was airborne and headed for Sanctuary.

***

“Everyone all right?” Brenna had landed just outside the barrier, and once her charges dismounted she shifted back to her natural form.

“I think I’ll stick to ground travel from now on.” Neran had been a bit green around the gills when they stopped at midday, but he had soldiered on like a good knight.

“Understood,” she said. “I actually hate heights. Learning to fly was a long, terrifying process.”

Ellisia grinned. “That was exciting! I can’t wait to tell Brennan one day about how he flew to his new home.”

“We’ve just a little farther to go. This way.”

Sanctuary had been founded in the ruined temple in the Brecilian forest that had once housed the cursed werewolves. Merrill had negotiated peace with the local Dalish clan, though the fact that they had Asha'bellanar’s blessing helped considerably. The magical barrier that had once protected the werewolves now protected Sanctuary, with a few clever upgrades thanks to the mages who lived there. 

Brenna paused at the barrier and closed her eyes. The autumn breeze held a nip of impending winter, and the dry leaves rustled overhead. She listened to the hiss of the rolling magical fog, and buried within the white noise she found the words to the current pass phrase. Orlesian this time—likely her sister Reanne’s doing.

Brenna spoke the words, and then shepherded her charges safely through the mist. They emerged onto the remains of the grand concourse that led to the temple ruins—slightly less ruined now, as their people had been restoring the area.

She stopped at the twin statues guarding the temple’s entrance. “This is Mythal’s temple. I don’t expect you to abandon the Maker to worship her, but we are guests in her home and I do ask that you respect that.”

“Of course, my lady,” Ellisia replied.

“What is Mythal the goddess of?” Neran asked.

“Good question. She is a protector, and she is the patron of motherhood and justice. Many children have been born here since Sanctuary was founded. Your son will have many playmates.”

They had arrived late in the day, and most of Sanctuary’s residents were settling in for the evening. She nodded to the guards who watched them as they ascended the steps and emerged into the temple complex.

The mages had breathed life into the temple—it had once been a place of decay, poisoned by one man’s revenge. Now it was a home that sheltered and nurtured its inhabitants as they built new lives. Her heart swelled each time she saw it.

Brenna gave them the lay of the land. “The training grounds are there. Our defenders train in teams of two—a knight templar and a knight enchanter. They work together as a unit.”

She pointed toward the temple’s central structure. “The residences are there, as well as the dining hall, libraries, studies, and classrooms. The outbuildings are made up of the kitchen, trades, the tavern, and the marketplace.”

“Maker’s breath,” Neran said. “I wasn’t expecting all this.”

“We’ve been busy. This is the first and the largest Sanctuary,” Brenna said. “There are a few smaller settlements in Orlais and the Free Marches.”

“Wish we’d known there was one in the Marches,” Neran said. “It would have saved a great deal of travel.”

“True, but I like to think our home is a bit more comfortable than theirs.”

Brenna usually made a fuss over her return home—greeted by a stampede of friends, children, and mabari pups—but she didn’t want to overwhelm the baby. The child currently slept in his mother’s arms, and Brenna saw no reason to disturb him.

Her arrival had been noted by one familiar face, and she marked Orsino’s approach—he remained the tallest elf she knew, and his three-headed dragon staff was easy to spot. She bowed politely in greeting.

“Allow me to introduce First Enchanter Orsino, formerly of the circle in Kirkwall. First Enchanter, this is Knight Templar Neran and his wife Enchanter Ellisia.”

Orsino bowed in greeting. “Pleased to meet you.”

“First Enchanter, our new friends need food and lodgings.”

“Of course.” Orsino smiled. “If you would please follow me, I will see you situated.”

“I’m convening a council meeting in the morning,” Brenna said.

“I suspected as much. Get some rest, my lady.” He led the young family away, and Brenna headed to her quarters.

Exhaustion slowed her steps the moment she crossed the threshold, as though the sum of all the worries, battles, complex magic, and lack of sleep from these past few days dragged her down all at once. Since the Blight she had honed her ability to appear in command at all times—confident, powerful, and authoritative. Unfortunately the facade was stronger than the reality, and the strain of casting so much magic—particularly large shape-shifting spells like the griffon—depleted her energy. It would take her a few days’ rest to recover before she could fly to Denerim.

As one of the founding members of Sanctuary, Brenna was afforded a small suite of rooms—a sitting room, a study, and a bedroom, all of which she shared with Zevran. He was absent at the moment, so she conjured enough hot water for a bath in the bedroom’s sunken stone tub. Every muscle protested as she stripped, and it felt like she was covered in a year’s worth of road dust and grime. Her armored coat needed a thorough cleaning—the armor of any proper Fereldan warrior was covered with mud, blood, and mabari fur.

Brenna let her hair down and sank into the water with a weary moan. She indulged in a few quiet moments as the warmth eased her aches—it was the first peace she’d had since leaving Denerim for Therinfal Redoubt. With a sigh she scrubbed away the filth until she was satisfactorily clean.

The scrape of the outer door opening alerted her to Zevran’s arrival, and she hauled herself out of the tub, reached for a towel, and began to dry off. 

“Hello, handsome.” Her spirits lifted at the sight of her beloved Crow—golden haired and as gorgeous as they day they had first met. Of course he had been trying to kill her at the time, but some of her closest friends had once tried to kill her. Brenna trusted Zevran with her heart and soul. “Did you have fun while I was gone?”

“ _Querida_ , I was lost without you.” He crossed to her and kissed her passionately. “I understand you visited Haven. Did you have fun there?”

“Not really, no.”

“Hmm. I suspected that might be the case. Here, I will treat you to one of my famous massages and you can tell me all about it.”

“Mmm, that sounds wonderful. I love you.” She smiled and kissed him again.

“And I love you.”

After plaiting her hair into a single, loose braid she stretched out on the bed on her stomach to let Zevran work his magic. She watched as he disrobed—his massages traditionally ended with both parties naked and entwined, and her body flushed in eager anticipation.

He started with her sore feet, and the warm, scented oil eased the pain away.

“How is Fenris?” Brenna asked.

Zevran chuckled. “Broody yet surprisingly bendy, as usual.”

“Good.” She smiled—when Sanctuary was founded after the incident at Kirkwall, Zevran had considered seducing the prickly elf a challenge. He conquered said challenge thanks to his irresistible charm, high cheekbones and pouty lips, and a bit of advice from Isabella, who had already cracked Fenris’s defenses. Sadly Fenris’s fear of being controlled by mages meant she wasn’t invited to join the pair, but she didn’t mind as long as they were happy.

“You saw our nightingale, and your knight, yes?”

Brenna sighed. “I did, though I doubt they’re mine anymore. Leliana was…” She trailed off as she sought the right words, and Zevran moved on to massage her calves. “Cordial. Friendly without warmth. When I spoke to her I saw our Leliana, but all I heard was Marjorlaine. I think she may be truly lost to us.”

“Hmm. I would not give up on her yet. She spent the last few years focused on serving the Divine. To lose her in such a terrible way has shaken our nightingale. She needs time.”

“Perhaps.”

Brenna almost purred her approval as Zevran worked his way up to her thighs and then her ass, teasing her as his thumbs dipped between the cleft in her cheeks.

“And your templar?” he prompted.

“Former templar,” she corrected. “He claims to have left the Order. We didn’t speak much.”

“Why not?”

Brenna flinched as he found a sore spot in her back where the envy demon had struck her particularly hard and had cracked a rib. The break had healed but the area was still tender.

“We did a fine job of avoiding each other,” she explained. “Thanks to Varric’s book the whole village was watching to see if Cullen and I rekindled our tragic romance.”

“This is why I prefer our romance, _querida_. Less tragedy, more lovemaking.”

She smiled softly. “True.”

After finishing with her back and shoulders he tapped her hip and signaled for her to turn over, and she happily obliged. She gasped when he raised her right leg and pressed a kiss to her ankle and the pleasurable ache in her sex intensified. Her foot rested on his shoulder as he kneaded her calf and thigh.

Brenna licked her lips as she gazed up at him and appreciated the view of his leanly muscled body. She knew the story behind each battle scar that marred his golden skin, and where he liked to be kissed, scratched, or bitten.

“Are you returning to Haven?” Zevran asked.

“Almost certainly. I need to discuss it with Alistair and Anora. Ferelden must work with the Inquisition if we wish to maintain the people’s good will.”

“Do you wish me to join you?”

“Yes, but not yet. We need to reinforce Sanctuary’s defenses, and I’m still assessing the situation with the Inquisition. They have the potential to be a great ally in our plans, but I need to know more.”

“A wise plan.” He set her foot down and repeated the process with her left leg. “Do you wish Leliana and Cullen to join our arrangement?”

“That’s a trickier question.” Brenna frowned and her brow furrowed. “If they agree to our terms, yes, but only then. Do you want them to join us? It’s as much your decision as it is mine.”

“I would welcome the return of our nightingale to our bed. As for your knight, I’m certain I could find several uses for a handsome, strapping Fereldan warrior.” He grinned slyly, and Brenna chuckled.

Zevran nudged her legs apart and settled between her thighs. He teased the seam of her sex with a slow lick, and then he parted her folds and sucked her bud. Brenna’s back arched as she moaned her approval. She was already wet when he slipped two fingers inside her and slowly pumped them as he pleased her with his tongue.

The sensations built slowly—a rising wave instead of a crashing storm that allowed her to savor each moment. He murmured Antivan endearments that sent sparks of pleasure tingling down to her curling toes. He urged her to come and sweet release swept through her. Maker, she had missed him.

Zevran crawled up her body for a lingering kiss, and then he knelt between her spread thighs and massaged her breasts. “You look magnificent.”

“Thank you, love. I think you look rather well yourself with your mouth upon my mound.”

“I quite enjoy being there.” He rolled her taut nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, and she gasped.

“More,” she begged. “I need your cock inside me.”

With a wicked grin he lowered his body to hers, and she thrust her hips up to meet him when she felt the head of his swollen cock at her entrance. She wrapped her legs around him to pull him as close as he filled her in one long stroke.

The sexual acrobatics they typically enjoyed with each other would wait for another time—her exhaustion called for languid lovemaking that allowed time to enjoy each moan and sigh, and thoroughly explore each other’s pleasure. They kissed and caressed, whimpered and begged as they moved together in a lazy, indulgent rhythm.

Brenna finally rolled him beneath her and arched above him. They took up a steady pace as she rode him, her hips grinding down to meet him as he thrust into her. Zevran gripped her hips with a bruising strength and he groaned as she trailed her fingernails down his chest. Faint red lines in his tawny skin marked her territory—Fenris might borrow him, but Zevran was her Crow.

“Come with me,” Brenna urged.

“Gladly.”

Their movements turned frantic as they drove each other toward climax. She cried out when ecstasy overwhelmed her senses, and Zevran did the same as his sex pulsed his release within her. His softening cock slipped from her and she collapsed beside him, sated and smiling. He pulled her into his arms and she laid her head on his chest.

“Rest now, my love.” Zevran pressed a kiss against her hair. “You can tell me about the rest of your adventures in the morning.”

***

Brenna checked on Neran and Ellisia the next morning during breakfast to see how they were settling in. The young family seemed overwhelmed but happy, which seemed to be the most common reaction shared by Sanctuary’s new citizens. Sanctuary appeared to be too good to be true, and that made anyone understandably cautious.

The council meeting followed the meal, and they convened in a large room that had once housed Mythal’s faithful at prayer. Now a round wooden table dominated the space, allowing each council member an equal place to speak and be heard.

The council had added new members as Sanctuary expanded, but the founding members remained—Brenna, First Enchanter Orsino, Ser Thrask, Bethany and Nathaniel, Merrill, Fenris, Zevran, Ser Jacques, and Ser Nadia. They listened as Brenna told the story of Therinfal Redoubt and the many things she had learned since then.

“Red lyrium.” Orsino scowled and shook his head. “I hoped to never see its like again after the Gallows.”

“Agreed,” Brenna said. “We need to double our guard patrols and wards, and send word to the other Sanctuaries. We designed our defenses to resist templars, but these red templars are a new foe. We don’t know what they’re capable of, or who this ‘Elder One’ is.”

“I will assign additional patrols,” Ser Thrask said.

Orsino nodded. “And I will attend to the wards.”

“What of the Inquisition?” Nathaniel asked. “Are they friend or foe?”

Brenna leaned forward and folded her hands atop the table. “I’m leaning toward _friend_ with what I’ve seen so far, but I would like to learn more before making that call. The Herald of Andraste is a mage, but he’s a mage who came from a Circle that didn’t experience problems like those at the Gallows or Kinloch Hold. He recruited Fiona’s mages to their cause as equals, but Fiona’s mages are…Aequitarians.”

Grand Enchanter Fiona led the mages who had favored the idea of an orderly rebellion, one with lengthy speeches and rounds of votes. It was a noble if inefficient idea, and it was one that the action-oriented mages and templars of Sanctuary didn’t share.

“For now I’m going to continue in my role as an agent of Ferelden,” Brenna said. “I’d like the rest of you to discuss the details of what sort of arrangement you would like with the Inquisition should we choose to ally with them.”

Bethany nodded. “With the amount of goodwill the Inquisition is garnering among the people, it may be in our best interests to forge an alliance with them soon.”

“Agreed,” Orsino said. “If there is no other business, this meeting is adjourned.”

Bethany grinned as she approached Brenna, her hands resting on the swell of her pregnant stomach. “You met our new cousin, the Herald of Andraste. What is he like?”

“Shy. He’s a researcher, not a warrior. Right now I’d like to hear about this new cousin.” Brenna nodded toward Bethany’s belly. “How are you feeling?”

“About the same. Tired. Hungry. My back is killing me.”

“Which hasn’t stopped her from spending each day at the training grounds.” Nathaniel wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “She’s a ruthless taskmaster.”

“I prefer teacher to taskmaster.” Bethany brushed a fond kiss against Nathaniel’s cheek.

“Any news from Marian?” Brenna asked.

“Yes. The family has settled at their new location,” Bethany said. Marian Hawke’s position within the mage rebellion was unique thanks to her husband—the world believed that Anders was dead, executed by Brenna after the attack on Kirkwall’s chantry. Maintaining that lie meant that Marian had to keep to the fringes of the rebellion, even dropping out of sight completely when things became difficult.

“Good. Seeker Pentaghast was eager to learn of Marian’s location. I told her to go fuck herself. Varric nearly swallowed his tongue trying not to laugh.”

“I’m glad he’s all right,” Bethany said.

“I’ll be sure to give him your regards when I return to Haven. Now, I’d love to see what progress your students have made, Cousin Taskmaster.”

Bethany grinned. “Let’s go.”


	13. The Storm Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald and the Hero of Ferelden visit the Storm Coast to search for signs of Grey Wardens.

“Again, half speed.”

Blackwall advanced in response to Brenna’s shouted command, and Vanya grimaced, set his footing and raised his staff. The warden’s slowed approach reminded Vanya of the strange pockets of time in the fade rifts in and around Redcliffe, where some spots sped combat into a frenzy while others dragged the battle out as slow as molasses.

Unfortunately, even in slowmotion Vanya’s melee skills left much to be desired, and half speed did not necessarily mean half strength. The impact of Blackwall’s sword against Vanya’s staff sent shockwaves up his arms, and he grunted as he shoved the blade away.

His body ached from the day’s exploration of the Storm Coast, but his new taskmaster wasn’t about to let him rest. After Brenna returned to Haven as the newly minted Fereldan Ambassador to the Inquisition she dove into the role. One of her main priorities was teaching Vanya combat skills so he could properly engage any enemy, and she insisted on training sessions every morning and evening— _danger does not wait until you are well rested, cousin_. In theory, Vanya was grateful for the help, but his bruised body disagreed.

Blackwall reversed his swing and Vanya batted the sword aside. His gaze focused on his opponent’s weapon as he tried to determine the warden’s next move.

“Mind your footing,” Blackwall warned.

Vanya frowned and then yelped as his boots slipped in the mud. He barely managed to remain upright, but his effort proved to be in vain when Blackwall’s shield collided with his left arm. He spun, off-balanced, and his feet completely failed him. He landed on his back and stared up at the cloudy evening sky. At least the rain had stopped.

Blackwall appeared and offered him a hand up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Brenna chided from the sidelines. “Again.”

“Give the kid a break, Kingmaker,” Varric called out. “Let him heal and have some stew.” The dwarf sat near the campfire and was doing something to his crossbow. Calibrating? Repairing? Vanya was mystified by Bianca’s workings. In truth, he was mystified by Varric in general—he handled social situations with an ease and humor that Vanya envied.

“I’m not certain that feeding our dear Herald this concoction qualifies as a break.” Dorian’s lip curled as he peered into his bowl. “It might even qualify as punishment.”

“Are you criticizing Ferdelan cuisine, Cousin Dorian?” Brenna asked. 

Vanya scraped mud from his coat and tried not to flinch at the reminder that Dorian was a very distant cousin, a few centuries removed. He didn’t want Dorian to view him as family—he wasn’t quite sure what he _did_ want Dorian to see him as, but certainly not family.

“Yes, I am.” Dorian offered the contents of his bowl to Vanya’s mabari, who eagerly gobbled it down. “The dog seems to enjoy it.”

Vanya turned to Brenna, who rolled her eyes. “All right. Thank you, gentlemen. That’s enough for today.”

Blackwall bowed to Vanya and Brenna. “You are improving, Herald.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” He cast a small healing spell over himself and Blackwall to ease minor pains. They returned to their places around the fire, and he helped himself to a bowl of stew. His mabari flopped down beside him and laid her head upon his knee to watch him eat.

They had set up camp on a bluff overlooking the spot where the Long River met the Waking Sea. It rained for most of the day, but despite the inclement weather they managed to make some headway into their search for signs of the Grey Wardens.

Dorian tutted at Brenna as she sat beside him. “If you’re going to teach the Herald to use his staff as a club at least let me teach him to do so with style.”

“No. He has to crawl before he can walk.”

“But he can still crawl with a flourish. The forms you’re teaching him are—”

“Basic,” she interrupted.

“Boring,” Dorian declared. Vanya agreed to a point—it wasn’t the sort of education he would have sought under normal circumstances, but the fact that this situation was anything but normal was the reason he needed it.

Varric chuckled and shook his head. “The Herald can develop his own style later, Sparkler. For now we want to focus on keeping him alive if the red templars get up close and personal.”

“Bah.” Dorian threw his hands up. “That just makes you all sound like barbarians.”

“Spoiled Vint,” Brenna teased. “Speaking of which, this stew is fine.”

“Shows what you know, filthy dog lord.”

“Dog lady, if you please.” She grinned and bumped his shoulder playfully, and Dorian chuckled.

Varric finished fiddling with his crossbow and set the weapon aside. “It’s your turn for storytelling, Herald.”

“Is it?” Vanya frowned. Each night a member of their party was responsible for entertaining the others with a story—when the weather was good they played cards as well, but thus far the Storm Coast had proved too damp for Diamondback or Wicked Grace. Which was just as well, because he was miserable at both.

He was also miserable at storytelling. The others all had exciting tales to share—fighting darkspawn, bandits, mercenaries, or even dragons. Vanya didn’t. Not yet, at least. This was his big adventure, and hopefully it would be over once the Breach was closed.

Vanya peered at Dorian. “What kind of flourishes?”

Dorian grinned, and Vanya’s stomach did a fluttery flip-flop. The mage launched into an explanation of Tevinter’s various combat schools, ranging from the techniques of their infantry to the complex rules of mage duels. Vanya forgot about eating as he listened—he was fascinated by the differences between a mage’s life in the Southern Circles, as Dorian called them, and in Tevinter.

Vanya was fascinated by Dorian in general. Dorian loved magic—he spoke about it with passion and pride, his head held high, and never with the pinched shame that was hammered into circle mages. Vanya loved magic but would never say such a blasphemous thing out loud—not because he feared for his soul, but because he feared retribution from the chantry and the templars. He wanted the courage to bicker and debate with the ease that Dorian and Brenna did, he just wasn’t certain how to learn it.

The others join the discussion on occasion, but otherwise let Dorian talk. Finally Brenna rose. “I’m going to walk the perimeter.”

“I’ll join you,” Blackwall said.

She nodded her assent, and the pair walked off. Once they were out of earshot Varric whistled low.

“That’s going to be trouble,” he said.

“What is?” Vanya asked, bewildered.

“Our Grey Warden is enamored of the former Warden Commander,” Dorian said.

“Really?” Vanya turned and watched the pair as they walked toward the beach.

“Quite,” Dorian said. “He follows her as eagerly as your hound follows you.”

Vanya peered down at Good Girl—or G.G. as he had taken to calling her. “Are you enamored of me?”

G.G. licked his face in reply and Varric whooped with laughter.

“Barbarian dog lords,” Dorian tsked. “ _Fasta vass_ , we’re all doomed.”

***

“It’s been many years since I was at sea,” Blackwall said. Their boots crunched through wet sand as they walked just out of reach of the water line. The waves seemed quieter than they had during the day, or perhaps everything had seemed ill tempered during the storm. The bears had certainly seemed angry.

“How were your sea legs?” Brenna asked.

He chuckled. “Bad enough to discourage me from making it a habit. You?”

“I fared well, but I’d rather keep my feet on the ground.”

“Says the woman who can fly.”

“I hate flying.” She shuddered. “I abhor heights. I only do it when necessary.”

They walked in amiable silence, eyes sharp for any trouble. Between the Blades of Hessarian and the Inquisition’s forward scouts the area had been cleared of most common dangers, but they had encountered darkspawn twice along the coast. It was strange to fight darkspawn again—Blackwall had sensed their approach and warned the party, but Brenna was numb to their presence. She didn’t miss being Blighted, but in times like those she felt its absence like the loss of a limb.

She paused near a large, twisted piece of driftwood and stared out at the water. An island blocked the endless stretch of the Waking Sea, and she rather thought it spoiled the view.

“When I lived in Amaranthine I would travel to the cliffs to watch the waves break against the rocks below. I’d stare at the horizon and think about what waited on the other side of the sea.”

“The Free Marches?” Blackwall asked.

“Cullen.” Brenna sighed as her heart ached.

“Have you and the commander reconciled?”

“Not yet. We’re ignoring each other at the moment, save for Inquisition matters. There will be time for that once we can all catch our breath.” Cullen had an army to build, and she understood the importance of leaving the man to his work, but Maker, did she ever want to distract him. Being so close to him, working side by side, and yet there was a chasm between them caused by years of silence.

She straightened and turned to Blackwall. “Do you know Warden Jean-Marc Stroud?”

“Can’t say as I’ve met him, no.”

“He was one of my lieutenants—my eyes and ears in the Free Marches. We were like oil and water, but that was what I appreciated about him. He never failed to speak his mind if he thought I wasn’t going about something the right way. He’s a good man, and a good Warden.” She paused and took a steadying breath. “I can’t be certain yet, but I think he’s the one the Wardens are hunting.”

Blackwall frowned. “What makes you think so?”

“We kept contact in secret—I might have left the order, but I worried about my wardens. I lost contact with him a few months ago with no warning and no word since. It’s not like him.” She grimaced as her stomach twisted with worry. Stroud might have been her mustachioed menace, but he had her utmost respect. “If the Wardens are hunting him, something has gone very wrong.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Blackwall sighed. “We have a few more areas to check. We might learn something else.”

“I’d like to think this is all a big misunderstanding, but...we’ll see. We’d better circle back before Dorian talks the others to death.”

Blackwall laughed.“Of course.”


	14. Find A Way Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald and the Hero of Ferelden must find a way forward after the destruction of Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for some gruesome first aid.

_The world was consumed by fire, flames that licked at Vanya’s boots and singed his hair as smoke filled his lungs. His eyes stung with tears and shrieks and howls deafened him_ — _screams of the dying, calls to arms, the jarring clang of a warning bell, and the groan and snap of overstressed wood as beams cracked and walls gave way._

_“The only choice left is how spitefully we end this.”_

_Spite? It was a squeak from a mouse in the face of a giant_ — _a gaunt, spindly monster with claws and jagged red lyrium splitting its sickly skin that towered over Vanya. The Elder One_ — _a nightmare that called itself Corypheus, protected by a pet Archdemon that set Haven ablaze._

_“I am here for the Anchor.”_

_The monster growled, gripped his wrist, and dangled Vanya above an icy abyss. Frozen with fear, he stared at the sea of white below his kicking feet and saw a splotch of red and gold, a sword, and a trebuchet. The fear turned to anger as the world twisted and tumbled, and when it righted itself he stood with his back to the trebuchet and the sword raised in defiance_ — _a mouse who roared._

_“Enjoy your victory, here’s your prize!”_

_The avalanche rushed toward him, but an enormous black crow snatched him by the shoulders and they sailed away. Then the avalanche overcame them and they drowned in a sea of white._

Ivan Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste, awoke to agony in every bone in his battered body. Dried blood flaked his lips, and nerves and muscles ached as though he had been pummeled, beaten, and stomped. He cracked his eyes open, stared at a dim, rocky ceiling, and accepted that he was still alive, because death would be painless.

_Alive_. Maker, for a few moments he had given up. Accepted that he would die so the others could escape. Something had changed. Spite?

With a groan he rolled into a sitting position and took stock of his injuries—nothing broken, though his torso ached as though his ribs were cracked. He felt like one enormous bruise—a cold bruise, surrounded by snow—and he cast a healing spell to ease some of the pain. His healing skills were almost non-existent. He had barely studied the subject in the circle, and there seemed little point in learning more when his companions were accomplished in the area.

_“Lucky for you, cousin, I excel at impossible situations.”_

Brenna…she defended him from red templars while he prepared the trebuchet, and she had landed beside it when the dragon attacked and the explosion tossed them into the air. She shifted and grabbed him during their escape before the snow overcame them. He turned and his heart skipped a beat when he spotted Brenna sprawled unmoving a few feet away. 

He hissed in pain when he crawled to her side. She was cold and silent, but alive. He cast his meager healing spell and her eyes fluttered open. She groaned and spat a string of curses so inventive that Vanya’s brow rose, impressed.

“Where are your healing potions?” he asked.

“Pockets.”

“This coat has a dozen pockets. Which one?”

She reached inside her coat and then yelped. Her fingers were bloody when she withdrew them. “Broken.”

“Can you heal yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” His voice jumped a worried octave.

“Shifting is difficult, and I was tired from battle. I need time to regain my strength. How bad does it look?”

He examined her for obvious wounds—like him, she was covered with scrapes, bruises, and dried blood. His stomach twisted at the sight of the unnatural angle of her lower right leg. Her leather pants were shredded below her knee, and bone ripped through her skin just above the top of her boot where her shin had snapped. He swallowed the bile that rose at the gruesome sight.

“That’s...really bad.”

She grunted and propped herself up on her elbows to see for herself. “Well, shit.”

“What do I do?”

“You’re going to have to bandage the wound and splint it.”

“I am?” His heart pounded—he had never done anything like that before. That’s what healing spells were for.

“I’ll talk you through it.”

He helped her sit up, and he followed her step-by-step instructions with shaking hands as he gathered the material for the splint. Sweat broke out across his brow despite the freezing temperature when he removed her boot.

Vanya frowned. “You have a knife in your boot?”

“Throwing knife, in both boots.”

“Maker. They didn’t teach us that in my circle.”

Brenna laughed and then grimaced. “You have to straighten the leg. The ends of the bone need to be close for the magic to mend it.”

His stomach lurched at the idea. “I don’t—I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Yes you can. You’re the Herald of Andraste. You can do anything.”

Vanya’s expression soured—he understood the Inquisition’s need to promote the title, but it still felt strange. “I’m not...I mean, I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t remember anything about what happened at the Conclave, or after it.”

“Fair enough. You are my cousin, and I have faith in you.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. He squared his shoulders, took hold of her calf with both hands, and pulled. Brenna screamed, and he flinched. “I’m sorry! It’s done!”

She gulped air for several tense moments before regaining her composure. “It’s fine. Here, you need to bandage it next.”

She withdrew a roll of bandages from her coat, and Vanya focused on gently wrapping the wound. He replaced her boot and then crafted the splint around it per her instructions. He sat back when he was finished, and a faint green glow of her healing spell surrounded her leg for a moment and then vanished. 

“That’s as good as it gets until I get some sleep or a lyrium potion, or both. You’re going to have to help me walk.”

“All right.” He helped her to her feet, and she caught him in an awkward hug.

“Thank you, cousin. You’ve done well.”

He shuddered as a degree of the anxiety clutching his chest unraveled. “I can’t believe we’re alive. Where are we?”

Brenna released him and took his arm. “Old mining tunnel, by the look of it. Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes have a maze of tunnels beneath them. We fought our way through a few when we were searching for the urn.”

“So it should lead somewhere?”

“Yes. As long as it doesn’t lead us to dragon cultists I’ll be happy.”

There was only one way out of the cavern—the shaft they had tumbled down was filled with snow and debris. Brenna clung to him for balance as she hobbled beside him. The tunnel had been shored at some point in the past, and the walls were lined with enchanted torches that continued to burn long after the miners were gone. They trudged onward in pained silence until another cavern came into view.

As soon as they entered Vanya knew something was wrong, and the familiar shriek of a despair demon shattered the quiet. Three demons swirled up from the floor, as though conjured by his own doubts that he and Brenna would see the sun again. He raised his hands—his staff had been lost when the dragon attacked—and Brenna cursed as she drew her sword.

The demons struck them with streams of frost and ice, and Vanya panicked. Despair demons were tough to fight when he had his companions protecting him, and now he was unarmed and his cousin was gravely wounded. The green light of his mark—the Anchor, the monster had called it—gleamed in the dim light, and Vanya’s fear turned to rage.

_Fuck this_. He was exhausted, injured, and he’d had enough of things trying to kill him.

Magic boiled through his veins and erupted from the mark in an emerald explosion. A rift opened above the despair demons and they screeched in protest as they were pulled through it. The rift vanished and all was quiet again.

“Andraste’s ashen ass, how did you do that?” Brenna sheathed her sword.

“I don’t know!” Stunned, Vanya turned his palm over, but the mark looked as it always did.

“Well, good work, however you did it.”

“Thanks. Here.” He offered her his arm, and they continued their slow march.

It felt like hours spent with little progress, but finally the howl of the wind and a gust of fresh air led them toward an exit. A storm raged outside and snow whipped past the mouth of the tunnel. The light from the torches illuminated a few feet from the entrance before being devoured by the storm.

“Thank the Maker.” He started forward and Brenna shook her head. 

“We’ll never make it in that. We need to wait until it clears.”

“But the others—”

“Will be much easier to track when we can see where we’re going. Let’s make a fire and wait until morning.”

He grimaced in frustration but nodded—she was right. They would likely freeze to death before anyone could find them in that mess. He helped Brenna sit, her back to the wall of the tunnel, while he gathered enough debris to build a campfire.

When he was finished they huddled close to the flames, and Brenna sighed.

“I know a bit about Corypheus.”

Vanya’s jaw dropped. “How?”

“It’s not firsthand knowledge. Marian and Bethany fought him, along with Varric and a few of Marian’s companions.” She took a deep breath before continuing, her face drawn with pain. “The last time I visited Kirkwall was to rescue a warden expedition to the Deep Roads that had gone missing. Before we left Amaranthine, Bethany was attacked by Carta dwarves who said they needed ‘the blood of the Hawke.’ When we arrived in Kirkwall we learned that Marian had been attacked by the same dwarves, and Varric had located their hideout in the Vimmark mountains. Bethany split off and went with Marian to investigate, and Nathaniel and I went after the wardens.”

“Nathaniel?”

“Nathaniel Howe, Bethany’s husband. I recruited him to the wardens when I first took command in Amaranthine. He’s a good man, you’ll like him.” She smiled. “As I understand it, they pursued the dwarves into an abandoned mine and became trapped within a Grey Warden prison. It was warded in a way that once they entered, the only way to leave was to undo the wards protecting the prison.”

“A Grey Warden prison?”

“I had never heard of it, and it seems that those who had heard of the prison thought it was a myth. Unfortunately it was real, and it was built to house a single ancient darkspawn, unlike any other the wardens had encountered.”

“Corypheus.” His stomach dropped and twisted—the monster was certain to haunt his nightmares for the foreseeable future. He doubted that they were lucky enough that it was killed in the avalanche.

“Just so. Somehow he gained control over the dwarves and used them to lure Marian and Bethany to the prison. Their father, Malcolm Hawke, had been recruited by the wardens to reinforce the wards before he fled Kirkwall. Their blood—the blood of the Hawke—was necessary to undo the wards.”

“They let Corypheus out?”

“Oh no, they killed him. As Bethany tells it, it was an epic battle. Which considering some of the adventures they had before Bethany became a warden is saying something.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose as though fighting a headache. “Varric might know more, and I can take you to Bethany if you want to speak to her. She’s too pregnant to travel. Marian is out of contact at the moment.”

“Cassandra still wants to find her.”

“I know. She attempted to bring the subject up to me a few times. I shut her down.”

“Why do you hate Cassandra? I’m still a bit afraid of her but...I think she means well.”

“Many people who mean well can still do terrible things. But, aside from the fact that she’s tried to kill me?” Brenna quirked an eyebrow. “Hmm…”

She was silent for several long moments as she studied Vanya in the firelight. “How would you resolve the mage rebellion?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He frowned, confused by the change in subject.

“You thought enough about it to attend the conclave.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I thought about trying to go home, but I had no money and no idea how to get there. Several mages from my circle wanted to attend the conclave, so I went with them.” He fidgeted as he considered the question. His life in the circle hadn’t been perfect but it was decent, and he knew that many mages could not say the same.

“I guess, if I had to...reform,” he blurted. “We need the circles, but we have to address the problems that allowed the abuses by templars. Change the rules to allow more freedoms, like allowing mages to choose where they want to study. Keep families together when children show signs of magic. Allow mages to marry and raise their children.”

“Good. I agree.” Brenna scrubbed her face with her hands. “The Inquisition will need more than common soldiers to fight an army like Corypheus’s. We have been building such an army, one made of mages and templars who train together to fight demons and blood mages. We can train the Inquisition’s mages and transform them into a true fighting force.”

“We? Ferelden?”

“No. Marian and I have been building the mage resistance since it was a small underground movement in Kirkwall. Our faction is separate from Fiona’s.”

“Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

“Because trust is earned. Divine Justinia ignored the evidence of the abuse of mages time and again. Her indifference allowed the abuses to continue, and her idea of ending the conflict was to restore everything to the way it was. I will not let that happen. This is Justinia’s Inquisition, run by her right and left hands. I wouldn’t expose my people if it meant endangering them.”

“And now?”

“Now everyone will turn to you for guidance. The Herald of Andraste. The brave soul who healed the Breach, who stood alone against Corypheus and saved the people of Haven from certain death.”

“But I didn’t—” he argued. “We all fought to save Haven.”

“The people need a symbol, a hero to follow. Believe me, I know.” She smiled dryly. “You’re the hero in this narrative. They’ll place you on a pedestal because they need someone to follow. Someone who gives them hope.”

“Why can’t you do it, then?”

“Because you have the mark. Like it or not, everyone will look to you.”

Vanya grimaced and looked out at the storm. “Maybe we should just stay here, then.”

“Sorry, cousin.” She shook her head. “My point is, you’re a mage, and when the people turn to you for guidance, you can advocate for reform. You can be our voice for change.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“Yes. Tell me about you and Dorian.”

“What?” Vanya’s face burned with a fierce blush. “No! There’s nothing—I mean…”

Brenna chuckled. “Nothing yet, perhaps. You like him.”

“Of course I like him, he’s fascinating.”

“Have you told him that?”

Vanya scowled. “No. He’s…I don’t know what to say to him. I’m getting better at speaking with people, but this is different.”

“We can work on that. Get some rest, cousin.”

Though he doubted that he could relax in such a setting—he was cold, hungry, and still in pain—but he must have dozed off. The howl of the storm turned to the cries of battle in his dreams, where he rushed from building to building in Haven in a desperate attempt to rescue as many people as he could.

When he woke the storm had ended and sunlight streamed through the mouth of the tunnel. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and peered at Brenna, who was folding a piece of parchment.

“What is that?” Vanya asked.

“This is our messenger. You’ll see.” She smiled, but he noted the dark circles beneath her eyes and her flushed face.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ll feel better once we find our friends. Ready?”

They trudged out into the deep snow until she tugged him to a halt. She held the folded parchment in her cupped hands—it had been crafted into a stylized bird. A glow of magic surrounded it, and she raised her hands and spoke over it.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford.”

Magic snapped and the parchment morphed into a real bird that fluttered gray wings and launched into flight.

“Watch,” she ordered. “It will show us what direction to go.”

“Why Cullen?” Vanya wondered as the bird hurried away.

“Because I have a connection to him, and Leliana has too many aliases. Cullen has always been Cullen. Well, there’s our path.” She gestured in the direction the bird had taken. “Better yet, if Cullen follows the instructions and sends a reply the bird will return and show him where we are.”

“Can you teach me that spell?”

“Of course.”

Trudging through the deep snow meant that it took twice as long to get half as far, and the situation was only made worse with Brenna’s wounded leg. She tried to distract him with tales of her adventures, though her teeth chattered in the cold. The sun climbed in the sky, but the mountain pass the messenger bird had flown through didn’t seem to get any closer.

“Should we stop to rest?” Vanya asked. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

She didn’t look fine, and Maker knew Vanya wasn’t well himself. The fact that he could no longer feel many of his aches and pains was worrisome, because it meant his limbs were going numb.

A spot of gray streaked toward them, and the bird flapped to a stop in front of Brenna. She held out her hands and the bird reverted to the piece of parchment. She unfolded the parchment and laughed.

“He’s a man of few words.” Brenna handed it to Vanya, who quirked a brow as he read it.

_We’re coming._

“His first few letters Cullen wrote to me were hardly more than a few sentences. _Dear Brenna, I am fine. How are you? Sincerely, Cullen._ ”

Vanya laughed. “What changed?”

“I tricked him into writing more by challenging him to go out into the city and try new things.” She smiled with a wistful expression, but Vanya noticed a glassy glaze to her eyes.

“Brenna?”

She wavered, and he caught her as she toppled. Her eyes closed and she didn’t respond when he called her name. Vanya cast his healing spell, to no effect. He cursed and held her. “They’re coming, cousin” he murmured. “We’ll get you a real healer and everything will be right.”

Vanya had never been so happy to hear the sound of approaching horses. The group thundered around the bend and though the pass—Commander Cullen in the lead, Cassandra, and, thank the Maker, Solas.

“Solas! She needs healing!”

Cullen was the first to dismount and rush toward them. “What happened?”

“She broke her leg,” Vanya explained. “She was too weak to heal it, and my spells were too weak to do any good.”

“Move aside, please.” Solas motioned them away and examined her.

“Herald, are you all right?” Cassandra asked.

“Bruised and half frozen, nothing broken. How is she?”

“She has a fever,” Solas said. “The wound is infected. I can stabilize her here, but she needs intensive healing to properly repair the break.”

“Do it,” Cullen ordered.

A glow surrounded Solas’s outstretched hands as waved them over Brenna. She twitched and her eyes opened, and she squinted up at Solas.

“ _Ma serannas, lethallin,_ ” Brenna muttered before falling unconscious again.

Solas’s brow rose. “Well. That was unexpected.”

“Can we move her?” Cullen asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll take her. Herald, your horse is with Cassandra’s.”

Vanya rubbed the neck of his horse, the gentle chestnut mare that Horsemaster Dennet had gifted him, and clumsily swung into the saddle. His feet were numb in the stirrups, and he tried to flex enough feeling into his fingers to handle the reins. Cassandra helped Cullen pull Brenna up onto his horse, and he settled her against him, holding her close. Vanya suspected that Varric was going to use that in his romance serial when he saw the commander’s return.

The group turned and hurried away.

***

_Denerim burned. The weight of the crowd’s gaze wore upon her as her army assembled outside the city and she prepared to lead a team to face down the Archdemon. Alistair, Leliana, Wynne, and her mabari were accompanying her. The rest of her companions would hold the gate._

_“I would come with you,” Zevran said. Her handsome Crow_ — _he had more than proved that he would stand beside her through any danger._

_“I know.” Brenna caressed his cheek and forced a teasing smile. “But I won’t risk the Archdemon stomping on you and ruining your handsome face.”_

_Zevran grinned. “It would truly be a tragedy.”_

_Brenna’s heart ached as she leaned in and kissed him. “I love you.”_

_“I love you, querida. Come back to me.”_

_“I will, I promise.”_

_Denerim burned. She hurried through the streets as the screams of terrified Fereldans echoed around her. The Archdemon screeched as it soared over the city, and she flinched at the scrape of its song within her head._

_Haven burned. The Archdemon spat fire as it soared over the village. She hurried through the streets as she herded civilians into the chantry for safety, but she knew there was little hope for survival. Outnumbered. Outmaneuvered._

_Her cousin stood pale and silent at the realization that he could save the others at the expense of his own life. He nodded and steadied himself like a proper hero, and her heart swelled with pride. She stepped forward and clapped his shoulder._

_“Lucky for you, cousin, I excel at impossible situations.”_

_His color returned_ — _he wouldn’t be alone. They would face this evil together._

_She caught Cullen’s eye and the world froze, consumed by the memory of those last moments in the Gallows courtyard. The combatants separated into two sides—the templars on one, the Champion’s allies on the other. The scene was still and silent, as though everyone was too afraid to breathe. Brenna stared across the distance, stepped forward and held out her hand to Cullen. The templars flinched and raised their weapons. She froze, her throat tight with anguish._

_They were on opposite sides of the board._

_But not anymore_ — _now they were on the same side. The memory vanished, and she closed the distance between them, grabbed Cullen and kissed him hard._

_“We’ll be right behind you, I promise,” she said. “And then you and I are going to have a long talk.”_

_“I’ll hold you to that promise.”_

Brenna awoke to singing—a hymn she despised, for hope was poisonous to a circle mage. Dawn brought no solace for circle mages, where every day brought the same abuses as the one before. For a moment she feared that she had died and was trapped in an afterlife where she would be forced to listen to pious chanters singing the Maker’s praises.

She opened her eyes and stared up at a tent—not the afterlife, then. Perhaps she had missed an impromptu chantry service. She grimaced as she slowly sat up and swung her legs over the side of the cot. It was night, so presumably she had been unconscious for hours. Someone had healed her, and she cautiously flexed her mended leg. Good as new, though it looked as though the skin would scar—one more scar to add to her collection.

“You’re awake.”

Her heart skipped a beat as Cullen approached, and he sat on the empty cot across from her. _Alive_. She had faith that he would survive the retreat, but it was comforting to see. She glanced at their surroundings and spotted many familiar faces from Haven, including Leliana.

“Am I awake?” she asked. “I thought I heard singing.”

He blushed—Maker, she loved it when he blushed—and cleared his throat. “Mother Giselle thought the people needed a moment to restore their faith.”

“Hmm. How is Vanya?”

“He’s well. He needed healing himself, and he managed a few hours of sleep.” Cullen leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “How are you feeling?”

“Lucky.” Crushed potions, wounded, and almost no strength left—she hadn’t been in a position that dire since the Blight. “If I hadn’t had Vanya with me, I might not have made it out of that tunnel. He did very well.”

Cullen grimaced. “When we saw you overtaken by the avalanche, I thought…”

“I did promise. I keep my promises. Which reminds me.” She folded her hands and looked at him expectantly. Cullen cleared his throat again and avoided meeting her gaze, seeming to make a serious study of his boots.

“I know,” he said, his voice low.

Brenna swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. “We can’t keep avoiding each other. I understand if you’d rather not pick up where we left off. I won’t like it, but I’ll understand.”

“It’s not that.” Cullen sighed and glanced around. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He rose and helped her to her feet, and then she took his arm as he led her away from the prying eyes and ears of the camp. They ducked behind a stone outcropping—she assumed that Leliana’s people still watched them, but they were otherwise alone.

“I stopped taking the lyrium.”

Brenna blinked—that was not the path she imagined this conversation taking. “I...oh.”

“When I quit the order I wanted no ties left, a clean break. It hasn’t been easy, but I swore to give my all to this, to the Inquisition. It’s important.”

“I understand.” While a few of her templars still took lyrium, most of them felt the need to free themselves of its influence. It was a long, difficult process, and her heart ached for him. “What dosage are you at now?” Cullen frowned, and her stomach dropped. “You’re weaning yourself off, right?”

“No. I stopped altogether.”

_Oh no._ The blood drained from her face. “When?”

“When I left Kirkwall.”

“Andraste’s smoking tits!” She shoved him and his eyes widened. “Must you always do things the most difficult way possible? Stubborn mabari!” She scrubbed her face with her hands. “It’s far too late to wean you off now. Damn it.”

Cullen caught her hands and held them. “What are you talking about?”

“You chose the worst possible way of quitting the lyrium.” She took a deep breath. “It’s different for everyone. We’ve been developing a system to stop taking it safely. Or safer, at least.”

“We?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“The templars who joined the mage rebellion. Like Ser Thrask. He’s been off the lyrium for years.”

“I thought you’ve been working for the crown, not the mage rebellion?”

“I’ve been doing both.” She smiled weakly, and he sighed and cursed under his breath. “There are potions that can help with the withdrawal symptoms.”

“No. I won’t take anything that dulls my senses.”

“Stubborn mabari,” she repeated. “Well, that narrows your options, but I can still help you. You shouldn’t go through this alone.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Are you going to save me, Hero of Fereldan?”

“Clearly someone needs to.” Brenna reached up and tugged the leather cord around her neck free. It revealed the token that she wore hidden beneath her clothes—a knight chess piece carved from a bit of white marble, with a tiny griffon and mabari carved into its base. “I always keep it close to my heart.”

He gently held the knight and ran a calloused thumb over it. “I thought you would have tossed this overboard after Kirkwall.”

“Never.”

“Now who’s being stubborn?” Cullen pulled her close and kissed her.

She clung to him, one hand tangled in his ridiculous fur mantle while the other cupped the back of his head as she deepened the kiss. Maker, she had missed this—the rush of hungry heat as he held her, the desire that had existed between them since she had been an apprentice and Cullen a young knight. The years had been hard, filled with distance and drama, but now they finally had a real, fighting chance at a life together.

She just had to convince him to include Zevran in that life. And Leliana, should Brenna somehow manage to get her nightingale to break up with the Maker.

“This will be complicated,” he said.

Brenna snorted—he had no idea. “Has anything between us ever been simple?”

“I suppose not. We should get back.”

She shook her head. “Oh no, if I had to wait five years to kiss you they can wait five bloody minutes more.”

He grinned. “If you insist…”


	15. The Rebel Base

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Cullen and the Inquisitor visit Sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for discussion of withdrawal symptoms.

Cullen’s life had been a series of bizarre events since the Conclave—demons raining from an enormous hole in the sky, Venatori cultists, templars corrupted by red lyrium and led by none other than his former roommate, Raleigh Sampson. And now, at the behest of the newly-proclaimed Inquisitor, Cullen had flown across Ferelden on the back of a griffon who also happened to be his shapeshifter former lover, Brenna Amell.

Flying was both terrifying and fascinating. One slip would send him hurtling to a quick, messy death, yet once he settled into the saddle he accepted that he was safe. Unlike the wardens who had designed the contraption, Cullen and Trevelyan wouldn’t be doing aerial battle with darkspawn. Seeing Ferelden from the air was almost like surveying the map in the war room—small trees bunched close together, rivers wound through the rolling hills as though painted by the Maker. They reached their destination, somewhere in the Brecilian Forest he reckoned judging by the direction of their journey, as the sun was setting. He and the Inquisitor dismounted, and Brenna returned to her natural form, yawned and stretched.

“Everyone all right?” she asked.

Cullen nodded without comment—his hands had ached before they left, but now they also shook from the strain of gripping the griffon’s saddle. The pain in his limbs had increased the longer he was off the lyrium, and he was anxious to see what manner of remedies Brenna’s people could offer to ease his symptoms.

“Can you teach me that spell?” Trevelyan asked. “That was amazing.”

Brenna laughed. “I can teach you to change your shape, but we’ll start with something simpler, like a cat.”

“Who taught you?” Cullen asked. “That’s certainly no Circle spell.”

“Morrigan did, during the Blight. Her mother is an apostate, so she learned all manner of spells that the Circle would never approve of. Old magic, she called it.” She rolled her shoulders and waved them onward. “This way, gentlemen.”

After spending the last decade in Kirkwall, Cullen had grown used to city life. The darkness of the forest was unnerving, and he found himself distracted by the rasp of dried autumn leaves scattered by the wind. The trees pressed too close to the faint path, and anything could be hiding within those shadows.

The path led to the archway of an ancient ruin—a crumbling wall that towered above them, almost consumed by clinging vines and the tops of nearby trees that poked through windows long empty of glass. A curious swirling mist filled the archway, and Brenna stopped and tilted her head.

“This is the gateway.” She motioned for them to join her. “Vanya, what do you hear?”

Trevelyan stepped forward and his brow furrowed with concentration. “There’s a whisper in there. Words. I don’t recognize the language.”

“Very good. Cullen?”

He frowned—his templar training concentrated on breaking magic, not listening to it. He reached for his sword in reflex and his aching fingers gripped its hilt. He closed his eyes and focused—it reminded him of the rustle of bored parishioners trying not to fidget during the quiet lull of a chantry service. The memory allowed him to recognize the whisper Trevelyan had heard. The words were foreign, but the cadence was seared into his mind.

“Oh Maker, hear my cry,” he recited. “Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places.”

“Excellent. I’m impressed,” Brenna said. “Do you speak Antivan?”

“No, I recognized the rhythm.”

“The pass phrase changes regularly. This one is longer than most, probably Ser Antonio’s contribution. He’s very devout. You don’t need to understand the language, just repeat the phrase correctly.” She spoke the words and the mist disappeared, and she studied both of them, her expression guarded. “Many lives depend on the safety of this place, our Sanctuary. By showing you this I’m entrusting you with those lives.”

“I understand,” Cullen said, and Trevelyan echoed the sentiment. “You aren’t afraid that intruders will hear the phrase?”

“Most haven’t taken the time. They charge through it, which deposits them in a different area in the forest. Our guards are alerted if they try to dispel it.”

“Guards?” Trevelyan asked.

Brenna whistled, a short burst like birdsong, and two answering whistles sounded from the trees. Cullen nodded, impressed.

With the barrier behind them they continued on the path—now wider, swept, and well traveled. Crumbling columns lined the path, and torches illuminated a large structure loomed before them, its walls covered with clinging ivy. A tower reached past the treetops, and a dome covered the main building. Like Skyhold, it was clear that someone tended and inhabited the area.

They reached the outer wall protecting the complex. Brenna stopped at the open gate and nodded to the guards who watched them—a man with a sword and shield and a female elf who carried a mage’s staff. Their armor appeared well made and broken in, and the heraldry combined the sword of the templars and the ring of the Circle of Magi, all surrounded by the Chantry’s sunburst flames. Well organized, Cullen noted. Nothing like the ragtag group of mages that Grand Enchanter Fiona led.

Brenna motioned to the twin statues flanking the gate—a woman’s torso, sans head and arms, with great wings sweeping from her shoulders. “This is Mythal’s temple, the elven goddess of justice. We are guests in her home, and I ask that you respect that.”

“Of course,” Trevelyan said. Cullen had no quarrel with long-dead elven gods, and he nodded.

They ascended the steps and emerged into the temple complex. New buildings had been constructed throughout the open area outside of the main structure. Among them Cullen recognized the smoke of a smithy, the boisterous noise of a mabari kennel, and the rollicking sounds of a tavern. Considering the overhaul that Skyhold was currently undergoing, he understood how difficult an undertaking it must have been to accomplish. Particularly since Sanctuary had been built in secret, while Skyhold benefitted from the resources of the Inquisition.

“The grand tour will need to wait for the morning,” Brenna said. “For now we’ll visit the dining hall and then show you to your rooms. I’m famished after all that flying.”

They entered the main building and Trevelyan gasped. The grand entrance was enormous, larger than the main hall at Skyhold. The evening sky peeked through a hole in the dome overhead and a tree branch stretched through it. Trees had grown up the stone walls, like living ornaments. Sconces lit the room, and the light glittered across the mosaics that covered the walls and portions of the floor. Guards were posted throughout the room at access points—each pair consisting of a mage and a soldier, most likely a templar—and people milled about, chatting casually.

“This is amazing,” Trevelyan said. “How many people live here?”

“I don’t know the current number. A few hundred at this location.”

Cullen quirked an eyebrow. “How many locations are there?”

“More than one.” The corners of her mouth twitched.

Trevelyan continued to gape at their surroundings. “You have a few hundred mages here?”

“We have mages, templars, members of the chantry, and a variety of family members, tradesmen, and other civilians. Anyone who wishes to build a better life is welcome in Sanctuary.”

“How do you define _a better life_?” Cullen asked.

“With peace. ‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just.’” Brenna folded her hands. “We didn’t recruit those who were seeking revenge or power over others. We offer our citizens a fair chance to live free without the fear of being punished for the supposed crime of being born with magic. There is so much good we can do—” She broke off and smiled dryly. “But you didn’t come all this way for a lecture. Let’s continue.”

The evening meal appeared to be in full swing when they entered the dining hall. The room was loud with laughter and conversation, including children’s shouts and shrieks. Long granite dining tables filled the space—the stone probably scavenged from elsewhere in the temple. Cullen’s stomach rumbled at the savory scent of roast boar that permeated the air. He had a hit-or-miss relationship with food as of late—some scents would instantly turn his stomach, and there were days he couldn’t eat at all.

He recognized Ser Thrask first, because the man’s fiery red hair stood out in any crowd. As Cullen continued to scan the room he spotted more familiar faces. Many were mages from the Kirkwall circle—after all, Hawke and Brenna had absconded with more than half of the Gallows’ mages to save them from Meredith’s purge. There was a large number of templars in the crowd, but perhaps that was not so surprising. Brenna had always made it clear that she didn’t hate templars, she hated bullies. Blessed are the peacekeepers, indeed.

A squeal returned Cullen’s attention to Brenna. A young girl dashed toward her and Brenna tossed her in the air before planting a loud kiss on the child’s cheek. “Hello, sunshine! Did you miss me?”

The air huffed from Cullen’s lungs as though he had been punched in the gut. _Maker’s breath_. He scrambled to determine the child’s age—four years old? Brenna settled the child upon her hip as she turned toward them.

“This is our cousin Vanya,” she said. “Vanya, this is Andra Hawke, Bethany and Nathaniel’s daughter. Her twin brother, Carver, is probably pestering the knights. And this is my friend Cullen. He likes to play chess, too.”

“Really?” The child perked up and studied him with interest. Cullen relaxed as he recognized Bethany Hawke in the girl’s features—dark hair and big brown eyes.

“Yes, and sometimes I even let him win.” Brenna winked at Cullen.

His face flushed, but instead of chess his thoughts were filled with the idea of a little girl with red-gold curls in Brenna’s arms, a dream of what could have happened had he taken her hand in the Gallows’ courtyard instead of standing with the Order. Maker, perhaps he should have let Leliana come in his stead. Everything here was designed to skew his thoughts toward what might have been.

“Is this our new cousin?” Bethany approached with a warm smile. She was heavily pregnant, as Brenna had informed them.

“Yes,” Trevelyan said. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He blushed as she enfolded him in a welcoming hug, and then he shook Nathaniel’s outstretched hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your genealogical research into our family. We should make a copy for Dorian. He might be able to fill in his connection.”

“I’d be happy to.” Bethany’s brow rose as she turned. “Knight-Captain Cullen?”

“Not anymore.” He smiled tightly. “I left the Order.”

“Cullen is the commander of the Inquisition’s forces.” Brenna set Andra down and the girl took her mother’s hand.

“Congratulations.” Bethany smiled. “Here, join us at our table and we’ll find you something to eat.”

It was...pleasant, Cullen decided as the group settled in. Almost too good to be true considering the years of quiet, tense meals he had endured in the Gallows. He listened as Bethany peppered Trevelyan with questions, and he wondered what things would have been like had the Circle allowed mage families to stay together. Brenna wouldn’t have been sent to Kinloch Hold—she could have studied at the Gallows while living with her family in Hightown. The Hawke family wouldn’t have had to flee to Ferelden. Perhaps it would solve the problem of parents attempting to hide their children after they showed signs of magic, and the trouble that choice inevitably caused.

He thought of the day Knight-Commander Meredith revealed the cause of her unshakable stance on mages to him.

_“My sister was a mage.” Meredith looked past Cullen, as though seeing through him as she focused on the distant memory. “She was a kind, gentle soul, and completely unprepared for such a burden. My family hid her. We knew she could never last in the Circle, or pass their rigorous tests. Amelia was terrified but utterly grateful for our efforts. We thought we were doing the right thing.”_

_The knight commander swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. “And then she was possessed by a demon. My sister killed our family, and I only barely escaped. Before the templars brought her down she had slain seventy innocents. So I understand all too well why the mages struggle, as well as why the laws we uphold are so vital. I will not allow my sister’s death to be without purpose. It will serve as a reminder of where good intentions can lead.”_

Sanctuary seemed to be built on good intentions, but a single abomination was capable of terrible destruction—a truth that haunted Cullen’s nightmares. At least Brenna understood that danger as much as he did, which would explain why she kept guards posted throughout her utopia. As First Enchanter Vivienne was fond of saying, magic is dangerous just as fire is dangerous. Cullen was curious to see what other preventative measures existed within Sanctuary.

“ _Querida_ , who are our gorgeous guests?”

Cullen’s stomach soured with a wave of jealousy. He knew this must be Zevran—Brenna lit up at the sight of the elf and smiled broadly. Cullen knew of Zevran’s history with Brenna, and though he knew that Zevran had been with Brenna when she battled her way through the circle tower during Uldred’s revolt he had no memory of him.

“Hello, handsome.” Brenna embraced him and greeted him with a kiss. “This is my cousin Vanya Trevelyan.”

“Welcome to our humble home.” Zevran bowed. “I always enjoy meeting more of my darling Brenna’s family.”

“I think you might remember Cullen,” Brenna said. “Though I don’t believe you were formally introduced.”

Zevran turned his attention on Cullen and grinned, a sly glint in his eyes. “I never forget a handsome Ferelden in distress. Congratulations on commanding the Inquisition. I must say that you look particularly fetching in that armor.”

“I, uh...thank you?” Cullen looked to Brenna in confusion.

She chuckled and patted Zevran’s shoulder. “ _Feliz cacería, mi corazón_.”

The elf’s grin widened as he took the empty seat beside Cullen and leaned close. “Tell me, Commander, have you ever experienced the exquisite beauty of Antiva City?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Now that is truly a shame. Our lady is the one thing I love more than my country.”

_Our lady_? Cullen doubted that he meant blessed Andraste.

Brenna had attempted to explain to Cullen her unconventional romantic arrangement with Zevran. He supposed it made sense in a way—a Circle mage and an Antivan Crow would have no expectations of having a typical Chantry marriage. Aside from his relationship with Brenna, he had found his pleasures when opportunities presented themselves. He considered himself a pragmatist about such things.

But nothing had prepared him for Zevran’s relentless flirting.

Cullen wasn’t prepared for flirting, in general. Flirtation might as well have been a foreign language as far as he was concerned. He was grateful that the majority of his courtship with Brenna had taken place through correspondence, because it had given him ample time to find the right words. Dorian had flirted with Cullen since the mage joined the Inquisition, but Dorian seemed to flirt with everyone as a sign of affection.

If Dorian’s flirtation was a candle flame, Zevran’s was a fireball. The elf made the mention of a lillo flute lascivious, and his commentary on Antivan leather had Cullen tugging at his collar and shifting in his seat. Then Zevran started quoting Antivan poetry and Cullen’s breeches became embarrassingly constrictive, as though he was a virginal Chantry boy undone by a few naughty words. _Maker’s breath_. It didn’t help that Zevran was attractive. Brenna often teased that the Hero of Ferelden preferred pretty blonds, and Zevran certainly fit that description. Slender, leanly muscled, with fine features and full, sultry lips that Cullen’s traitorous brain had imagined wrapped around his cock, and then he nearly choked to death on a mouthful of wine as he tried to banish the image from his mind.

“I think that’s enough excitement for one day.” Brenna planted a kiss atop Andra’s head, who had fallen asleep in her lap. She handed the child to Nathaniel, then beckoned Trevelyan and Cullen to follow her. The room had emptied while Cullen was distracted by Zevran, and only a few stragglers remained.

“The living quarters are this way,” she said.

Cullen tried to memorize the route, but the stone halls looked the same and he was exhausted from spending the day hyperalert to avoid falling from the griffon’s back. Brenna finally paused at a T-junction. “Vanya, your room is this way. Zev, would you show Cullen to his room, please?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Zevran bowed. “This way, Commander.”

The room was larger than his quarters at Skyhold and it included the comfort of a stone basin for bathing. He barely noticed any other details, because he kept his focus on his guide.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Zevran smiled, and Cullen doubted that he meant an extra blanket.

“No, thank you. This will do quite well.”

“Of course, if the room is not to your liking you are quite welcome to join us in our bed.”

“I…” Cullen coughed as his face burned. “Thank you, but—” He pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for a quick death when he spontaneously combusted.

Zevran chuckled. “The offer stands. You need not decide to take us up on it now, or ever. I will not be offended if you prefer Brenna’s company to mine. I myself have a relationship with Fenris that is separate from mine with Brenna.”

“And no one gets jealous?”

“No. Not yet, at least. I cannot say it will never happen.” Zevran shrugged. “Each of us understands that our feelings for one person do not lessen our feelings for another. I love Brenna. I never expected to love anyone as I do her. I was raised in a whorehouse until I was purchased by the Crows. It was not the sort of upbringing that encourages romantic ideas, and yet, here I am.”

Cullen smiled softly. “Brenna does have that effect on people. Perhaps if the three of us could sit down and talk? A lot has happened since I left Kirkwall. I had hoped to see Brenna again, but I wasn’t expecting her to show up on Haven’s doorstep with a group of templars, of all things.”

“She does like to make an entrance.” Zevran laughed. “We should have time to talk after the council meeting tomorrow. Get some rest, Commander.” 

He bowed and left, and Cullen stared at the closed door as he attempted to process the elf’s offer. It would certainly be an interesting conversation.

Sleep had been elusive since Haven—his nightmares had hardly needed new fuel, but the red templars seemed an ideal subject. The brethren of his past, twisted into mindless monsters who marched upon his new life and destroyed his new home. But nightmares were not his problem when Cullen’s head hit the pillow. Instead, his thoughts fixated on one of Zevran’s ridiculous Antivan poems.

_The symphony I see in thee, it whispers songs to me. Songs of hot breath upon my neck, songs of soft grunts by my head, songs of hands on a muscled back, songs of thee come to my bed._

They wanted Cullen to join them. Not the quick fumbling of an opportune pleasure, nor the few hours spent together when Brenna visited Kirkwall. Something permanent—an arrangement sinful enough to make a Chantry sister faint, and his imagination seemed determined to torment him with thoughts of heated breaths and eager moans, slick golden skin over lean muscles.

Maker’s balls. They were going to be the death of him, if Corypheus didn’t kill him first.

***

“Are you all right?” Brenna’s brow furrowed as she studied Cullen.

He rubbed the back of his neck and caught the weary sigh before it could slip free. Thank the Maker that she had come to fetch him and not that damnable elf. Cullen had tossed and turned all night, half aroused even after he had taken himself in hand to relieve the need that Zevran had left him with.

Cullen forced a smile instead. “It’s nothing. I didn’t sleep well.”

Brenna’s face fell and she cursed under her breath. “I’m so sorry. I should have had Ser Thrask show you to the infirmary after dinner last night. Are the symptoms bad?”

“No worse than usual.” He blushed—now he had her worried about his withdrawal symptoms. Not without merit, because a familiar low-grade ache was already lodged behind his eyes, but the pain was manageable for now.

“I’d planned to have you meet with him after you and Vanya speak with Bethany about Corypheus. Do you want to go now instead?”

“No, it’s fine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are they really fine or are you being stubborn?”

Cullen laughed. “Really fine, I promise. Let’s collect the Inquisitor before he finds trouble to get into.”

After a light breakfast they met with Bethany Hawke to discuss her adventure in the Grey Warden prison. Despite the grim subject, she looked happy—at peace. Cullen couldn’t remember if he had ever encountered a truly happy Circle mage. Even the mages who seemed content still exhibited a degree of tension, particularly when interacting with a templar.

He left the meeting with a bit more information than they had gleaned from Varric, though overall it still left the Inquisition with more questions than answers. Brenna seemed disturbed by Bethany’s account of how Corypheus had momentarily taken control of both her and Anders’ mind. The Grey Wardens were still missing, and Cullen hoped that they weren’t part of Corypheus’s growing army.

Ser Thrask met them when Brenna led them out to the training grounds. Trevelyan barely noticed Cullen’s departure, too awestruck by the sight of the mage and templar teams sparring. The combat did look intriguing, but he would learn more about Brenna’s troops later.

Thrask led him to a small wooden building set away from the others in a quiet spot close to the temple complex’s outer wall. Cullen followed Thrask inside and he recognized the setup of an infirmary. The grassy scent of elfroot filled the air, and cots lined the walls, separated by curtains for privacy. The cots were empty at the moment, but two people sat at a wooden table in the back of the room. Cullen startled as he recognized Ser Jacques and Ser Nadia—two templars he had served with in Kirkwall. 

“Maker’s breath, I thought you both died the day that Hightown burned.”

Nadia shook her head. “We intended to protect the Circle’s children from Meredith’s purge. When Hawke began evacuating the mages she recruited us to her cause.”

Thrask took a seat at the table and motioned for Cullen to join them. “Lady Brenna had hoped that you might join us one day, when you were ready to leave the Order. I hope you don’t mind that she told us that you had quit the lyrium.”

“I’m grateful for any help you can offer.” Cullen exhaled an anxious breath. He trusted these people—Thrask had been his roommate for a time, and he had fought beside Jacques and Nadia. Strange that they were reunited now by breaking their ties to the Order.

“At first, I hadn’t intended to stop taking it,” Thrask said. “Lady Brenna put King Bhelan on Orzammar’s throne, so we knew we would have a source of lyrium for our templar recruits once the resistance’s plans were in motion. Only we hadn’t planned on Anders forcing our hand.” He grimaced and rubbed his eyes. 

“You were already working with the mage resistance?” Cullen asked, and Thrask chuckled.

“To be honest, I was working with Kirkwall’s mage underground before Lady Brenna recruited me. That’s why she chose me.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed as he looked to Nadia and Jacques. “And you?”

“Not us,” Jacques said. “Meredith calling for the annulment was our breaking point. There was no justice in calling for the execution of circle mages in response to the crime of one lone apostate. Particularly an apostate who had already been killed for his crime.”

“I agree. I stood against her that day, but I…” Cullen swallowed hard as the memory tightened his throat. “I wasn’t ready to give up on the Order yet. So, you were left without a source for lyrium?”

“The chantry in Amaranthine city had been doling out my doses,” Thrask said.

“And we weren’t able to bring any additional lyrium when we left the Gallows,” Jacques said. “The knight commander kept it locked up tight, and we didn’t have time to break into the stores.”

“So when we all left Amaranthine for Sanctuary we were forced to ration our lyrium,” Thrask said. “It became the beginnings of our treatment regimen. By the time a lyrium source was obtained we were so far along in weaning off of it that we decided to stop taking it altogether. Normally, if you were one of our recruits, we would explain how our healers would reduce your dosage over time and what treatments we have devised to combat the different withdrawal symptoms.”

“Except that I stopped taking it altogether. Brenna already scolded me about that.” Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“And there are the unique demands of your position, Commander,” Nadia said. “We can’t give you a sleeping draught when you must be alert at all times.”

“Or anything that dulls my senses,” he added.

“Of course. We’ll build your own regimen with these things in mind.” Thrask waved a hand at their surroundings. The back of the room was lined with work tables that were covered with alchemy tools, and the walls and ceiling held bunches of dried herbs. Mostly elfroot, but he thought he recognized a few others.

“Not going to lie to you,” Nadia said. “Withdrawal is fucking hard. We’ve all been through it. I was nauseous for weeks, couldn’t keep anything down. I lost so much weight I looked like a walking skeleton.”

“My hands shook so much I couldn’t hold a quill, or a spoon,” Jacques said. 

“Hence the potions and teas we’ve developed to treat the symptoms,” Thrask said. “They’ll help, but ultimately, you have to fight through it. If you have questions, or just simply wish to talk, anything you say will not leave this room.”

A weight lifted from Cullen—he could do this. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a few liberties with the temple in the Brecilian Forest to make it Mythal-centered.
> 
> "Feliz cacería, mi corazón." = Happy hunting, my heart.
> 
> I started a new playthrough of DA:O just to flirt with Zevran for inspiration for this fic, and I forgot about the horrible Antivan poetry until he quoted it to my HoF in camp. 😮 The poem is directly from the game.
> 
> Jacques and Nadia appear in part one of this fic.
> 
> Meredith's story is directly from DAII.


End file.
